So, I guess these existential crisis are going to be a recurring phenomenon. It seems like I’m having one every two weeks, conveniently preceding pay day. Wouldn’t you fucking know it, they end about two hours after my paycheck clears the bank. I’m pretty sure it’s me being my typical, dramatic self but sometimes i can’t help but assume that the reason they are recurring is because I’m on the cusp of some sort of change and I’m not doing enough to facilitate it. I hate to get fake deep but I seriously wish I knew what I could do to work this shit out. Clearly, it’s not enough to be receptive and ready for the change, I have to figure out what the hell this “change” is. It’s really hard to walk around as the angsty 27 year old with a chip on his shoulder because he’s always in this meta-mental state of crisis but, shit, that is my ministry at this point. I don’t know. Maybe I just need a burrito.
The minute I heard that Beyonce and Jay Z were kicking off their On The Run Tour this summer, I knew I had to be there. I was willing to sell plasma, a kidney, my body, and a limited edition football helmet I bought at a yard sale for a ticket. I waited for today, the day when BeyHive fan club members could purchase prerelease tickets.
Well, today came.
I got to work (because I get up early for no one), clicked Favorites, and busted that Beyonce.com link wide open. Here’s where the proverbial shit hit the fan. Number one, the show’s not been coming to New York City. Like, what the shit?! Anyway, they’re playing in Jersey so I was willing to bite that trashy ass “wish you were a burrough” bullet. But then… Oh, but then… These tickets were a smooth $295 plus for some gum-on-the-floor, condom layered, “is this the right arena” seats. Listen, the way my bank account’s set up. I ain’t gone be able to do it. Dream deferred.
Oh, but my sweet mother. Let me tell you about this saint. She, in all of her crushed velvet motherly royal-ness, offered to pay for half my ticket. Like… What?! This is a small gesture to some but it showed me that she truly loved me more than I could know. For some back story, she was the one that took me to my first Beyonce concert and SAT THERE while I fan-girled the fuck out in that stadium.
I couldn’t do it. I can’t ask her to assist in paying for something so frivolous, yet vital to my being. I could come up with so many more worthwhile things to do with that money, like fly home to Texas and visit my mother. Trust me, I groaned in shame at the thought of spending money on this concert instead of going home to visit mom as well. At any rate, there’s a shit ton of other productive things I would do with that. I respectfully and graciously denied but, semi jokingly (because life) offered that she could buy my pizza and wine tonight (don’t judge my choice in dinner, just keep reading).
Ladies and gentlemen, she ensured that her eldest son was satiated with this beautiful pie and the biggest bottle of Yellow Tail Pinot Grigio I could carry. She’s too good to me.