Jun. 16, 2005 – Originally published by CNC, Inc.

Fleetwood Mac or Big Macs – I Love ‘Em Both

Last week, my husband Fred and I went to see Stevie Nicks and Don Henley in concert.  Although a pretty big fan of both, the real reason I wanted to go was to get out of the house for an evening, and a concert seemed to be a good way to do that.  I ordered the tickets on-line about six weeks ago, and when things got rough – when I was cleaning  macaroni and cheese off the walls, or nursing a sick fish (that’s a whole other column!) or calling a teenager to come home from out there in the big, dark world, I would say to myself, “It’s okay, girl, because soon you’re going to be rockin’ out to “Gold Dust Woman” with Stevie at the Tweeter Center. You just hang in there.”

Now, the concert day finally rolled around, and you could say that I was excited – and, that I had regressed just a teensy bit in anticipation of the night’s double-bill.  My husband slumped through the door with his briefcase, looked at me, shook his head and said, “Where’s my wife, and who are you?  Is that skirt made of scarves, and is that a headband and the tambourine?  Why are you wearing John Lennon sunglasses and a peace-sign tattoo?  And we don’t smoke - put that Marlboro Light out, young lady!”  All right, I had gone overboard again.  But as I clumped upstairs in my leather boots and threw my handbag made entirely of bandannas back into the depths of my closet, I had to wonder – did I just need a night out or was this the beginning of some sort of mid-life crisis and if so, would I continue to dress like this?  And was there an herbal supplement for it?  And who would I be on the other side?

Off we went down the highway to see Stevie and Don.  When you’re twenty and going to a concert, you flop into the car, throw a cassette (oh, all right, an eight-track) into the stereo system, and sing along to the band you’re going to see as you glide down the highway towards the concert venue.  When you’re in your forties, you have a sort of a check-list you go down as you consult the map to make sure you know what highways to take: Did you bring the Tums?  Did you bring the ATM card and the receipt verification number from the electronic portal where you downloaded your ticket ID and customer profile registry info?  Were the cell phones charged, and the general whereabouts of all children known?  Emergency numbers left on the counter, coffee pot turned off?  Fred and I looked at each other and sighed – being carefree was a lot of work!

Remember earlier how I said that I was a “pretty big” fan of Stevie Nicks and Don Henley?  Well, two songs into the show, as we swayed and screamed with the people around us, I had decided that everything important I knew about life so far I had learned from either the Eagles or the Rumours album.  “They are sooo singing about my life, man,” I yelled to Fred, who was trying to get a look at his watch in the darkness and singing along with “Dirty Laundry.”  As Stevie twirled and spun in the spotlighted darkness with her trademark scarves and fringy shawls and beautiful long hair, the crowd went wild, released from their mortgages and worries in a time-trip backwards to when things were simple and you would be seventeen forever and you would never, ever break the chain.

Soon it was over, and the band took their bows and the lights went up.  I looked at Fred, who led me back to our car, and back to our life. “I’d forgotten just how good they were,” Fred said, and I don’t know if he meant just Stevie and Don, or also the times- and the old friends - they represent.  The bittersweetness will almost kill you, on a beautiful summer night as your hand feels the breeze from your car window and the stars above guide you home and you realize you’re lucky – for both the past and the present - just so lucky for it all.