(OK, I finally worked out how I’m going to handle this whole Photo-a-Day thing, and how I’m going to handle it is, I’m going to just keep posting the photos on Instagram, and then blog about the ones I really like, or which have a story to them, or something. That way you don’t have to look at 365 blurry photos of the sky, and I don’t end up writing 20,000 words about them, but I still get to document my life in photos, and also get some really lazy blog content into the bargain. And I probably WILL still write 20,000 words about them, just so’s you know.)
So! A couple of weeks ago, Terry surprised me with the news that he had bought us tickets to see the Counting Crows for my birthday this year.
(They’re not actually playing on my birthday, or even anywhere near it. Rude of them, actually.)
Now, I know it’s not trendy to like Counting Crows, but luckily I don’t give a crap about being trendy, because I LOVE them. I discovered them back when I was a tortured journalist (as opposed to being a tortured blogger, obviously. “Older, not wiser” has been the motto of my life.), and I couldn’t help but notice they were singing the story of my life, which is all about love, and loss and, er, growing up in a small town on the east coast of America, and then moving to L.A. in search of a dream that is never realised. So, you know, maybe not EXACTLY my life, but whatever: I RELATED.
(I just realised that describing myself as a “tortured journalist”, might have been misleading. I meant that I was tortured emotionally, obviously. I wasn’t, like, John McCarthy or anything. Glad to have cleared that up.)
Anyway, I love Counting Crows, is what I’m trying to say. So when Terry told me he’d bought us tickets to see them, my first thought was, “YAY! Counting Crows! I bet Adam Duritz will notice me in the crowd, recognise me as his number 1 fan, and pull me up on stage, to join him in a quick rendition of Mr Jones. Awesome!”
(And now I’ve made it sound like I stalk Adam Duritz or something. I don’t. I’m not allowed to, ever since the restraining order.)
My second thought was, “Hmmm. Maybe I should get some singing lessons, just in case.”
And then my third thought? Well, obviously my THIRD thought was, “OMG, what will I WEAR?”
Things like this, you see, present me with my biggest fashion dilemmas ever. (Yes, it took me a while to get us back on topic, but I got there in the end…) The fact is that my wardrobe is sadly lacking in clothes of a practical nature. If you want me to go out to dinner (in the 1950s), accompany you to a bar (in the 1950s), or attend a wedding, say (in the 1950s, natch), I will be able to pull something out of that closet without even having to think about it. But if you ask me to go on a hike, or on a coastal walk, or to help you weed your garden (Note: never ask me to help you garden. I will cut you.), I’m out. I’m not joking: the “practical” section of my wardrobe boils down to either:
a) Workout clothes
So, if you were to ask me to help you move house, say, I’d turn up looking like I was going to either run a marathon or climb Everest. Or I’d turn up dressed like a pin-up girl, obviously. None of these would really be appropriate for that particular activity, and none of them will be appropriate for a rock concert either. I mean, if we were in the seated area, that would fine. I’d just go with the pin-up option. But we’re standing. The last time I was in the standing area at a concert was at Bob Dylan in 2011. “It’ll be fine,” I thought. “It’ll be a bunch of old hippies, all flashing V signs and swinging their beads and stuff.” Yeah, not so much. Someone stamped on my toe so hard I seriously thought it was broken (And, indeed, the toenail died. Sad for it.), and … actually, no, sorry, I can’t talk about the Other Things that happened that night. It’s too soon.
What I’m trying to say here, then, is that not even I would wear stilettos and a sundress for something like this. I need shoes that can be stamped on. Clothes that I can
fight dance in. A comfortable, practical outfit that will allow me to be on my feet for several hours, in the middle of a probably violent crowd, without my feet hurting, or, well, my dress getting creased. Because I would HATE IT if my dress got creased.
At the end of the day, though, I’m still not prepared to give up my heels, so I bought these:
They’re biker boots. But they have a little heel! They are TOTALLY not my usual style, but they’re super-comfortable, and I think they’ll protect my toes if someone tries to break them again. As for what I’ll wear WITH them… my thought-process hasn’t extended that far. I’m sure I’ll work it out, though. Probably the morning after the concert, knowing my luck.
Because I’m the kind of person who puts a pretty, bokeh effect on the photo of her concert ticket, though, and to go some way towards combating the whole BIKER thing, I also bought these:
(excuse crappy, low-light iPhone photo…)
And the balance of the universe was restored. WHEW.[Title lyric: Counting Crows, Round Here]