Get a Room
We had great tickets for Sheryl Crow at Chastain Saturday night, because the owner of the company Biggy works for has season tix and doesn’t always use them. We were, in fact, second row, left of center. I could see the freckles on Sheryl’s sternum.
Unfortunately, though, I was right behind the poster couple for eHarmony. Both in their fifties and with the air of relationship rejects (something I know a little about myself), that sort of stumbly, can’t-get-my-bearings affect, with a dash of I’ve-had-way-too-much-to-drink-already-and-the-opening-band-is-still-playing.
They were giddy over each other--he in his dadjeans, and she in her tent-top. He managed to be overly solicitous, making sure to ogle her almost as often as he ogled Sheryl. She seemed to appreciate that and would start looking a little worried if the attention lagged.
Every five minutes or so, they would kiss, and he’d mouth ‘I love you’ and then they’d go back to dancing—she waving both hands in the air, and he alternating between the Lawn Mower and Milking the Cow.
It was quite annoying.