Sometimes, it’s okay not to hit “add to cart.”
And, sometimes, you find out, days later, that you should not have hit “add to cart” while influenced. No, not influenced by your favorite Tik-Tokker but by a specific glass of wine. You know that glass, right? The glass of wine loosens your decision-making skills, fires up your scrolling thumb, and sends you shopping for things that, in that moment of weakness, are the best idea ever?
That specific glass of wine typically follows two or three other glasses and they all line up as a tiny grape infantry assigned the not-so-difficult duty of removing intelligent shopping decisions.
My friend Reed had a run-in with that specific glass of wine a few weeks ago. The summary of the shopping story is that he was enduring a night out with extended family and may have engaged a few glasses of wine to turn his frown upside down.
Me? I was sitting miles away at the kitchen table when I received (and responded to) this text:
I have no shame in admitting my Senior Swiftie status. I love her music. I love her business brilliance. I love that she doesn’t take herself very seriously. I love how those non-Swifties get so bowed up because, well, I don’t actually know why but I do question the amount of time these non-fans spend talking about someone they claim to dislike but that’s another soapbox.
Anyhoo.
When Reed sent that text, I was an immediate “yes” much to the relief of our respective partners. A Taylor Swift sing-along with lasers!? Who wouldn’t go for that? I’d seen the Eras movie months ago with another friend and it was wonderful. Lasers!? Even better!
Reed and I arrived at 6:30 pm, when doors opened, to find the line already forming an empty sidewalk and some confusion as to whether or not we had misread our calendars. We hadn’t. We were just first. That’s not weird, right? Two fifty-ish year olds leading the line? Relief struck when others started trickling into the line behind us. Relief then turned to panic as we realized every other adults was attending with children.
We may have misjudged our ability to blend into this audience. Welp.
Doors opened and we strolled down to our front row seats.
This meant that our back was to everyone else and therefore we had no idea that, while we were yammering away, the venue was filling with hundreds of nine-year-old girls and parents at a ratio of six pre-teens to one adult. I feel confident in saying that ours was the only party that had a ratio of two adults to zero little girls dressed in glitter and friendship bracelets.
Welp.
It was at this point that the story of how the tickets were acquired came to life and the clarity on the week-of feelers (Still up for this?) came to light. Still, we pledged to sit tight at least until the show started. No sense giving up before we even heard the first night or witnessed lasers galore. We did, however, agree that it would be perfectly fine to exit should that become an obvious, better choice.
It became an obvious, better choice.
As the first note played, Reed leaned over and yelled, “I’ve never been to a concert where they leave the lights on.” He had to yell because that first note served as a signal for hundreds of high-pitched voices to begin their best renditions of whatever song it was (seems only those under the age of ten could hear it). I suspect the lasers may have been more spectacular were the lights turned off and/or if the lasers were in beat with the music rather than just a few party-trick-light boxes whose switch was flipped to “on.”
As the next notes played, a woman appeared on stage dressed as if she’d picked up an outfit at the Taylor Swift Hand-Me-Down boutique. I immediately felt the rising of secondhand embarrassment but quickly realized this woman was accustomed to becoming the instant and absolute star of the show. The screams went to a level likely heard only by those astronauts trapped on the International Space Station (who I now felt were the luckiest people on off the planet).
I looked at Reed.
Reed looked at me.
Did I look as shook as he did?
I yelled, “I don’t know what to do with my arms!”
He yelled, “I don’t know what to do with my whole body!”
The first song ended and we grabbed a silent breath for just a millisecond before the second began with a signal for the entire population of nine-year-old girls in attendance to rush the stage. Soon we were surrounded by a crowd of tiny people in tiaras, waving light sticks, and begging Faux Taylor to trade friendship bracelets.
Did I mention we were in the front row?
I heard the faint cry of, “This is my worst nightmare” before a much louder, “PINEAPPLE!!” Was that the safe word? Had we ever landed on a safe word? I watched Reed begin his spring up the outside aisle while I aimed for the aisle in the middle. Reed’s escape was lickity-split while was left to fight the incoming throng of tweens darting for the stage. PINEAPPLE!
As we stumbled onto the sidewalk we vaguely heard security reminding us that there was No Re-Entry. Thank the good lord.
As I drove Reed home, it started in silence as we each worked through a variety of emotions. What the what!?! What had we just done? What the what!?! Silence changed to laughter–uncomfortable at first–as we realized that, at the very least, we now had another story to add to our Holy Hell, Remember That Time…? vault. That vault is getting quite full but, still, worth every errant decision.
Sometimes, it’s okay not to hit “add to cart.”
And, sometimes, the accompanying story will cancel any doubt that it wasn’t a wise (albeit wine-influenced) purchase.