Pretend, if you will, that this brownish t-shirt sported by Tim McGraw is free of any screenprint or lettering and that the neckline is somewhere between a deep V and a boatneck. And that is what he wore on Date Night Friday — Date Night being a date I enjoyed with my husband, not with Tim McGraw.
Only minutes into the concert, I asked the rhetorical, “Where does a person get a shirt like that?”
Standing with his arms crossed, he offered this answer, which was neither requested nor required: “What’s the big deal? Dean Martin wore one just like it in Rio Bravo.”
Throughout the evening, snarky comments littered the night sky like beer cans dotting the gravel parking lot. I eventually learned to shoo them away like flies … or gnats. Like the time my friend Kelly and I decided to take our husbands to see Barry Manilow at the same amphitheatre, and the snarking began in the parking lot when her husband observed, “I’ve never seen so many minivans at a concert.” Funny Brian.
I would venture to suggest that most concerts carve a great gender divide, no matter whether it’s acknowledged. Someone — the husband or the wife — is bound to be less into the event. No two halves of a couple could possibly adore the same musical artist equally. If they say they do, somebody’s delusional. Or lying.
Some examples of what I endured Friday night (with a preface that, no, my husband is not 9 years old) . . .
After returning from the men’s restroom: “There were more women in the men’s room than there were men. Why do women go to the men’s restroom?”
Settling in from the concession stand: “This is a nice view. You can see Cracker Barrel from here.”
And my personal favorite, which illustrates well the difference between male and female concert-goers:
Returning from the men’s restroom: “Why do men have to yell ‘Roll Tide’ while they’re standing in front of the urinals?”