A love letter to my husband (or)Kiss me, I'm shitfaced

It's funny, I don't feel twenty eight years old.  Am I supposed to?  Most of the time when someone inquires about my age I have to stop myself from saying nineteen.  But twenty eight years old I am, and in three short months I will be forced to turn (gulp) twenty nine.

What does this mean, though, really?   

Is twenty eight too old to stand on the outskirts of a stinky mosh pit, elbows out, as my husband has always instructed?  Is twenty eight too old to pump my fists in the air while surrounded by sweaty, crowd-surfing adolescents and scary men with neck tattoos?  Is twenty eight too old to scramble onstage with girls ten years younger than me and boisterously bellow out lyrics like:

"Kiss me, I'm shitfaced...

I'm soaked, and I'm soiled and brown in the trousers...

She kissed me, and I'd only bought her one round!"

It mustn't be, Dear Reader.  For, if you haven't already guessed, Hubby and I went to see the Dropkick Murphys perform last night at Roseland Ballroom.  And although I said I was just going to hang back and enjoy the music, during the encore I was overcome with nostalgia.  Suddenly I handed my sweatshirt to hubby (Hold this, please!) and disappeared to aggressively hurtle myself onstage.  I was probably the oldest one up there, minus most of the musicians themselves, but that was ok.  (I think?)  At least this time I wasn't holding onto my Liz Claiborne purse like a little old lady! 

Roseland is a much bigger venue than CBGB's, which was the last place we saw them play at.  As I mentioned, at CBGB's I also went onstage (with purse), though I fell in a terribly ungraceful manner while getting off.  I think my ankles are still swollen from that fall.  But last night I was no rookie.  I may have jumped onstage, but this time I politely walked down the side stairs when I'd had enough, happy to make a ladylike, twenty eight year old exit.

See?  We're not old!  I fiercely told myself.  Although, I guess I didn't feel completely young.  Earlier that day, a pounding headache had taken up residence on my right temple and had grown rather attached to me, it seemed.  At one point as we were jumping along to the music, Hubby yelled into my ear, "How's your headache?  Do you need your Head On? 

God, we're getting old. 

"This is a punk show!"  I shrilled, "I can't apply Head On in a mosh pit!"  Seriously, what would the other kids think?

If you'll allow me to get a bit personal, Dear Reader, the Murphys hold a special place in my heart.  It all began back in 1999, when Hubby delivered the sad news that he wouldn't be able to stay in college.  What that meant for me was that my boyfriend of almost two years would be leaving Boston to return to the other side of the country.  Southern California, to be exact. 

How could this be happening?  I'd always been a painfully shy person, but what I'd finally found in Hubby was someone who I could actually relax around.  I'd never felt so close to anybody in my entire life.  I was crushed. 

Naturally, the day before he was to leave, in lieu of packing Hubby spent the entire afternoon creating a mix tape for me.  (I realize I'm really dating myself here: a tape, not a cd!)  That night his apartment was as loud and smoky and crowded with people as ever.  The compilation tape he'd made for me was playing in the background and my belly ached as I listened to the music and half-heartedly pulled posters from his wall. 

A musician himself, Hubby had handpicked songs for me by all of his favorite punk bands, among them NOFX, Lagwagon, and Bad Religion.  One of the songs had an Irish feel to it, with bag pipes, and I recognized it as the Dropkick Murphys.  I'd never heard this particular song before, though.  Hubby's soulful blue eyes looked over at me then quickly darted away.  I was just able to catch some of the lyrics, though they were kind of difficult to understand, as punk songs do tend to be screamed more than sung:

"I once met a young girl, filled with fire, who saw through my front to this shell of a man.  She knew I'd be a handful from the start, this strong willed woman had an angel's heart..." 

And with that, the drums kicked in and I could barely make out another word.  I pretended I hadn't been listening, Reader, but I was.  Towards the end of the song Hubby turned to me and said, "listen to the lyrics here."

"Huh?"  I yelled over the music.

"Listen to the lyrics." He said again.

I listened as best I could.  What did it say?  I gambled on a hand I wasn't ready to lose?  And something about a bride?  His Irish rose? 

Later the next morning I choked back tears as I watched Hubby and his friend Josh drive away.  Was this really the end of the story, I wondered?  He was just going to drive away and leave me crying there on Hemenway street?  What the hell was I supposed to do now, just trust that everything was somehow going to work out?

Ever since I was little, I'd always verbalized feeling sad with one specific phrase, the same one I thought of then: my heart hurts. 

Hubby's friend Zeke, who'd also been waving goodbye, turned to me and asked if I was ok.  I remember feeling grateful to him for asking.  Was I ok?  No, of course I wasn't, I was twenty, overemotional and contemplating hurtling myself into the Charles River!

"Ya, I'll be ok."  I walked back across the street to my apartment, knowing that everything I'd loved about Boston had suddenly changed forever.  Now, no matter where I looked I was only going to be reminded of one thing: him.  Isn't it funny the way that works?

Immediately I popped in my mix tape and hugged my pillow, which still had his scent on it.  Where was that song?  The one he'd asked me to listen to?  What was it even called?  Ah, here it was.  Upstarts and Broken Hearts.  I fast forwarded to the end and listened somberly as hot tears stung my eyes.  Here they were, the lyrics he'd meant for me to hear:

"I remember it well, still I always knew, that she was destined to be my bride...This woman had pride, she was full of life, I could see the passion in her eyes..."

Holy crap!  What the frigg was this? 

That tape got me through a lot of lonely days.  Many years later, hubby admitted to me that as he was driving away he'd already begun to regret his decision to leave.  At the time, what choice did he have, though?  As you may have guessed, Dear Reader, he did eventually return, or I wouldn't be referring to him now as my hubby.  (I would use his real name, of course, but it makes him feel uncomfortable.  Gotta love that guy.) 

There have been a few other times where I thought perhaps I was going to lose him, this quiet, intense old soul whom my world has revolved around since the moment we got together.  I realize when we finally got married nearly two years ago we gained some validity in other people's eyes, but whether anyone can sense it or not, the love I feel for him has always bordered on the ferocious.  He's just so perfectly...him.  The best kind of person, if that even makes sense.  To this day he may be the sole thing in my life I've committed to.

The Murphys didn't play our song last night, since they only play it when Ken Casey's wife is in the audience.  I know this because he told me when we got to meet him after that last show at CBGB's.  Hubby snapped our picture with his camera phone as I slurred into Ken's ear, "Your songs mean so much to us, we played you at our wedding!  We played you when we cut the cake!"

"Ah, God bless yiz," he answered in a thick Mass accent, his arm slung around me.  He was wearing a Red Sox jersey, in New York.  That night they even had the balls to play Tessie, the Red Sox anthem.  It was frigging awesome. 

I don't like to say that a song glued us together when we were hanging on by a mere thread, but I think perhaps it did.  I still get goosebumps when I hear those lyrics.  And I will always get chills when I watch the Murphys play their loud, bagpiping, blue collar, gritty music.   

And that is why, regardless of my impending thirties, I hope I will never be able to stay on the sidelines when the rest of the females run onstage to sing Kiss Me, I'm shitfaced.  I owe it to us, to the kids we were a decade ago.  I owe it to my insecure twenty year old self, who worried so frantically about how it was all going to turn out. 

It turned out just fine!  I want to tell her.  See?  We made it!  It turned out exactly the way you wanted it to!  It makes me wonder what things my future thirty eight year old self is longing to tell me right now...

In closing, and in the words of my eighty four year old Grandmother, we are all as old as we feel.  And I do hope you feel very young. 

xoxo

Comments

[Amy]

Nice entry. I'm a little choked up.

[The Odd Broad]

Thanks, Winky. I got kinda choked up writing it, too!

[Weinerdog]

Ah Weinie!
I'm verklempt.

[The Odd Broad]

Thanks Laverne. xoxo

[Jess]

You know, even at 30 (GASP! Did I say that outloud?) I still feel the same way... Why, even at my bachelorette party recently in New Orleans I surprised myself by singing to the top of my lungs for a solid 6 hours at a great little place on Bourbon Street. With no voice the next morning--I felt a surge from the ole college days flowing through my veins. It was TERRIFIC!

[The Odd Broad]

I love it! And if 30 is the new 20 then we all have plenty of time left for fun and frivolity. And karaoke... :)

[Ma]

I love you and your "hubby" too! I can't imagine you with anyone else...

[The Odd Broad]

Thanks, Mommy. I love you too! xoxo

[Sissy]

This is a nice one, Sister.

[The Odd Broad]

Thanks poopie.