Hello Cleveland!

Last Wednesday, Guster was playing about twenty minutes away from my home for the first time in six months. I couldn't go to their show on Halloween because it was Halloween and I'm a MOM who lives in an idyllic New England neighborhood where the trick-or-treating is fantastic. But otherwise, I've been to about twenty or more of their concerts. Once a year, at least. My first was over fifteen years ago, when I was a first-year (That's right. Not a freshman. A first-year.) at Smith.

The problem was, I didn't really have any one to go with because it was a last-minute decision. Because last Wednesday night, I also had to teach my SAT prep class. At first I thought I could get Todd to sub for me, and I got in touch with my good pal Meghan, who's gone to a couple Guster-y celebrations with me. But then I realized that the Todd subbing thing would probably be more trouble than it was worth. Sorry, Todd. And sorry, Meg.

But on Wednesday afternoon, I started to feel like I was going to be missing something. So I called the theatre, and when I learned there was an opening act, I realized I could teach the class myself and then get to the show just in time for Ryan, Adam, Brian, and Joe. (I feel like I know these guys. I'm all proud of them. And they're dads now. And I'm a mom. We're growing up together, Guster! Ahem.) But Todd didn't want to go with me (He's been to more than his share, you've probably guessed.), I thought it would be too short-notice for Meg, who would have to make a longer trip, and when I asked Danielle and my pal Mary, they just weren't into it. Whatever. They haven't been to see Guster twenty times before, so I get it. And then I thought about going myself.

At 7 p.m., I was still trying to decide, and I was talking with my SAT colleagues about it just before the second group of disaffected high school juniors slumped into my classroom. We reviewed their homework, and I asked, over and over, in a very clear Ben Stein a la Ferris Bueller's Day Off sort of way, which problems they needed me to explain more clearly. Silence. I waited pained, uncomfortable minutes. Silence. These are kids who scored pret-ty low on their pre-tests. They've been with me for a couple of months, and I'm a good teacher, and their apathy made me all bitter and grumpy. And that's when I decided. I was going to see Guster, because I wasn't going to end my night on that stupid note.

So I drove in and pulled on my Celtics baseball hat and thought about how I didn't really blend in with the students from the five or six colleges in town. And when I walked in the theatre doors, I saw that there was no obvious box office. When I asked the volunteers scanning tickets whether I could still buy one, they told me no. My shoulders sagged and I think I might've looked despondent. But then an older gentlemen with white hair and a full beard ambled over to a closet, pulled out a ticket, scanned it, and gave it to me with a smile. "Do you want me to pay?" I asked. His two lady friends, wearing the same black vests and the volunteer badges, just waved me in. So, yeah. I GOT IN FOR FREE! And the show was fantastic, and I can't wait for them to release their sixth album, and even Marley loves listening to what she calls "Mommy Guster," and there you go.

It wasn't really that weird being on my own. I was just people watching while I was Guster watching, and I realized that fifteen years later, drunk college boys still love yelling about how awesome and funny and drunk they are, and there are still white girls with curly hair they style like dreadlocks, wearing those wide-legged jersey pants that are a precursor to the slacks they'll purchase at Chicos or J. Jill in twenty years, wiggling and waving their bodies around like they're at a hemp festival.

And I guess I'm still sort of the same person I was about fifteen years ago, wearing a baseball hat, and listening to Guster, for starters.