Last night, my husband and I went to see Chris Isaak at Wolf Trap -- a standing date we've had every summer for the past eight or nine years. We now get seats inside the amphitheater instead of picnicking on the lawn as we've done in the past -- a decision necessitated by Boobapalooza 2005.
That year, we had seats on the grassy expanse with hundreds of other people. I was ridiculously pregnant and completely uncomfortable because my maternity bra was stretched to its limits and cutting into my rib cage. After fidgeting and tugging at it and shifting sitting positions several times, I decided that the only way I could get some relief was to do that subtle unhook-your-bra-and-take-it-off-through-your-shirtsleeve maneuver. Forgetting, of course, that the move loses some of its subtlety when your bra is large enough to house a couple of boy scouts and several tins of their overpriced popcorn.
The looks on the faces of the concert-goers on the crowded lawn convinced Tim that it would be in our best interest at future shows to sit inside where I might not be as inclined to disrobe.
He hates freedom.
Last night, however, it was not me who was putting on the show.
Before the show started, a man and woman walked by where we were standing, and as they did, the guy just completely passed out. The EMTs came over to check him out and figured it was probably the heat (and by that, I mean "the alcohol") and let him lay on the ground and recover while they monitored his vitals. When he came to, he stood up and vomited everywhere.
I bet his wife is gonna make him sit in the amphitheater now, too.