Last weekend, I went to see this band full of adorable boys play at Lobo in Seattle. The lead guitarist is a friend of a friend, so I got to meet all of the guys in that band, and their sexy female lead singer, and the cuties in one of the opening bands. What is it about tall, skinny, long-haired guitar players? I know I’m not alone in this particular penchant, but good God!, I was swooning all night.

Until the third band went on. My friend and the guitarist’s girlfriend told me I wouldn’t be able to sit down, that I’d be compelled to boogie my butt off the whole time. When they started playing, I have to admit it was hard to keep my head from bobbing. But as everyone around me shimmied and moshed and threw their hands in the air, I realized I’m more comfortable being a spectator. Don’t get me wrong, I love to dance. You should see me in my apartment when no one is looking, or even at a club after a few drinks. But when there is something to look at, and that something is a tall, skinny, long-haired bass player, I don’t feel any compulsion to close my eyes and surrender to the music.

The night was fun, but it made me feel old.

Then, this morning, after bitching to whoever will listen about how sure I am that I’ve gained at least five pounds in the last two weeks, even though they keep telling me I’m crazy, I tore a little hole in the lining of my pants crawling into my car. I can’t tell if this is because I really am pushing maximum density, or if it’s just stupid that J Crew makes suit pants that stretch, but that are lined with material that doesn’t. I’ve always thought that was a little dumb.

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