Anniversary

Alan and I have been married thirty-five years this week. Being married to Alan is as natural, and essential, to me as breathing. We will likely go out to dinner and vie for supremacy in the ongoing really soppy or really tasteless greeting card contest waged over many years. We do not always exchange anniversary gifts. It depends upon whether one of us has a great idea. Alan is most definitely better at finding those truly unique and thoughtful gifts.

About ten years ago though I had a wonderful plan. My husband loves music, all sorts of music. His tastes are eclectic and his knowledge vast. He particularly loves a good guitarist. He mentioned in passing that Colin James would be playing in Montreal that year. I secretly schemed to get tickets for him. I went online to buy the tickets. This was the first time I had ever purchased anything online. I went to events in Montreal, clicked on Colin James, clicked on the date, got a whole page of events, saw the title “Millencolin” and clicked “buy”. I figured, given that it was the first year of the new millennium, that was the name of Colin James’ concert tour. Remember please those who are rolling their eyes, in my defence, I thought I was still on Colin James’ website.

The tickets in hand, we headed to the Metropolis on concert night, leaving our second daughter babysitting our youngest. We know this great Montreal concert venue, so we arrived very early and went up to the balcony. Our seats were terrific. Below us on stage the drum had a skull and crossbones on it. We wondered who could be opening for Colin James? Perhaps he was trying to appeal to a younger crowd? As the place started to fill up, I realized that no one around us seemed to be much over sixteen. Lots of black shirts, spiked hair, piercings and safety pins. The kids looked a lot like one of our daughters. We thought Colin James appealed to a much broader age group. Perhaps the older fans were downstairs? Now the place was packed. Fog carpeted the stage as the dry ice was set free. A skinny kid bounced onto the stage and shouted “Are you ready Montreal!” The crowd roared, the opening band raced to their places, and started. It was the worst, loudest, heavy metal, make- your- ears- bleed , music I had ever heard. The kids were on their feet. The area in front of the stage was a seething pit of kids jumping in the air waving their fists. Muscular men in t-shirts marked “security” were circulating trying to keep kids from hanging dangerously over the balcony. My husband, lover of all music that he is, was stoically trying to wait it out. I began to think something was terribly wrong. I said, “Just stay here a minute, I am going to check something out.” I pushed my way downstairs.

Kids were still streaming through the front doors. Management had made a narrow passage between the ticket booth and a large security guard so they could ensure everyone had a ticket. I went up to the security guard and gently tapped him on the shoulder. I said, “Excuse me. I hate to bother you, but this isn’t Colin James, is it?” To my eternal gratitude, the young man did not laugh out loud. He composed his face and replied, “Uh no, this is Millencolin a Swedish heavy metal punk band.” I blushed and stammered and tried to explain that I had made a mistake. They must have felt sorry for me. The security guard offered to go upstairs to get Alan. The ticket- taker leaned over and said helpfully, “Don’t worry. We wondered when you arrived, but then we thought you must be the band’s parents!” I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Soon Alan came downstairs; the security guard seemed to have no trouble finding him in the crowd. We thanked the staff, and still blushing I headed for the door. But there was to be no fast escape from my humiliation that night. The Metropolis staff stopped us, and with great courtesy, gave us our money back.

On the way back to the car, I apologized profusely to my husband for the disappointment and the failed gift. My highly amused husband replied, “Are you kidding? This was the best gift ever! You NEVER screw up. I ALWAYS screw up. I am going to get mileage out of this for years!” His grin stretched ear to ear. I said testily, “Oh, well, that’s alright then. But you don’t have to be so damned pleased with yourself!” He chuckled all the way home.

Our daughter was very surprised to see us so early. She asked us what happened. Alan replied, “Ask your mother.” Throwing him a dirty look, I said defensively, “It wasn’t Colin James. How was I supposed to know Millencolin was a group? It COULD have been the name of Colin James’ concert tour!” My daughter dissolved into helpless laughter. Snorting hoots of, “Mom, you are sooooo lame!” followed me all the way upstairs as I withdrew, trying to preserve some of my much tattered dignity. My husband and daughter howled with laughter as he recounted, for the first time, the entire story.

The story is now a treasured part of family history and has been told to many an appreciative audience. I don’t mind. These stories, where everyone in turn gets to play a starring role, are part of the glue holding marriage and family together, the more embarrassing, the better. It turned out to be the perfect gift.

The next summer, Colin James came to the jazz festival. I managed to get the right tickets this time.

Happy Anniversary love.