It’s been an exciting week here at the Aarons household, starting with my sweet husband Chris crashing on his bike. And by “bike,” I of course mean the kind you pedal. We’re way too wussy to be motorcycle people. I mean, one look at all of our NPR tote bags and heart healthy dark chocolate collection should tell you that.
The injury happened during a big bike race in Blanco, Texas. Blanco is a huge metropolis about 20 miles from Austin in the middle of the beautiful Hill Country. It’s pretty much just like New York City, as you can see from this picture:
Right after the race started, some other cyclist knocked Chris over during a turn, causing him to crash into a ditch and break his elbow. Then The Hillbilly EMTs brought him to Austin in an ambulance (“Y’all, we loaded him up with pain meds! Heee heeee!”) and the boys and I met him at the hospital. A few hours of agony later, including five scary minutes when the doctor gave him what he called “The Michael Jackson Cocktail,” he was moved to another hospital where a wonderful surgeon gave him a brand new titanium elbow. Which means he’s basically bionic now and don’t think I haven’t heard that news about five f-in million times.
Overall he’s doing very well and has been resting at home the past week. Still, at least once a day, I hear him yell things like this: “Kids, get your butts in the living room right now! I’m on pain meds and I’m letting you watch an R-rated movie! Move it move it move it!” Then for the next two hours: “Okay, don’t say that word,” “Don’t say that word, either.” “No, I’m not explaining what that terminology means until you’re shaving.” “Well, kid, the word ‘balls’ has many meanings.” So that’s been super fun.
Unfortunately, the injury meant that he couldn’t go to the Hall and Oates concert with me last Sunday night. As some of you may remember, we usually listen to H&O on our endless road trips where I’m always regulated to singing only the Oates parts. Chris takes the much more showy Hall parts because he can reach the falsetto notes and also, he doesn’t want me to experience joy.
In his place that night was my friend Maria who was super excited to go and who even dressed in awesome 80’s clothes for the occasion. (Note: At our age,”80’s clothes” is quickly changing in meaning from “the 1980’s” to “the octogenarian years.”)
The concert was really great and Hall and the Oatestache sounded amazing. (And I totally sang ALL OF THE HALL PARTS, SO SUCK IT, BIONIC MAN.) The sold-out crowd at the Austin City Limits theater was on their feet dancing the entire time. Well, except for our lame ass section. Not only did we have someone pass out in the aisle from overindulgence and need medical assistance, we had the German Date Rape Twins sitting in front of us. They showed up 10 minutes late, wearing blue blazers, then loudly talked the whole time while they Googled Hall and Oates on their phones. Seriously, what the f*ck? That’s like Googling “pizza.” Nimrods.
Immediately after the concert, we made our way down to the Austin City Limits theater plaza where we were thrilled to walk into a huge dance party jumping around to David Bowie’s “Let’s Dance”:
Of course we immediately inserted ourselves into the middle of it and began singing at the top of our lungs. Then, as the DJ continued to play 80’s music for the next two hours, we shook our asses like two premenopausal fools. I’m sure we were probably the oldest women there, but here’s the thing about being the oldest women at a big dance party: you own the big dance party because you do not give a shit about the big dance party.
There were a few men there who were older than us, all of them with much, much younger dates. Maria kept yelling, “Is that your professor? You don’t need to sleep with him to get an A! You’re smart enough on your own, baby girl!” But I don’t think any of them listened because they were far too enraptured by their dates’ white goatees, 401Ks and Tommy Bahama shirts.
The two of us knew the words to every single song the DJ blasted, from The Pointer Sisters’ “Jump” to Guns ‘n Roses’ “Welcome To The Jungle” and we weren’t at all concerned about how we looked while we sang as loud as we could and danced like unstable bunnies on Dexatrim. But as far as dancing in a sexy way like all of the other women there? Um, no. After all, why bother being sexy when you could instead hop around like Ducky in “Pretty In Pink”? Any sexy dancing from us was by complete accident.
However, that still didn’t stop some 30-year-old guy in a polo shirt from humping my leg during a Rick James song. Maria and I immediately screamed, “Gross! You’re a sicko!” and ran away from him. He actually looked very hurt, which makes me wonder if this is the way men now court women on the dance floor. Please advise, millennials. I don’t get it.
Finally, after Maria had a beer spilled down her back and I performed some rather spectacular drunken dance moves to “Like A Virgin” (search for it on YouTube under “old blonde lady has seizure to classic Madonna”), we headed home knowing we’d totally ruled the party. Maria even took a picture of me that not only shows her state of mind, but mine, too—blurry, tipsy and having more fun than anyone who remembers when “Square Pegs” was on TV has a right to:
As Hall and Oates would say about a husband with a broken elbow, being the oldest woman at a dance party and a really, really long week, “it’s a bitch, girl.” But even so, it’s still been pretty damn fun, girl.