My husband has been in love with Bruce Springsteen longer than he’s been in love with me. Bruce’s lyrics were the soundtrack for our courtship ( I came for you, for you, I came for you ), our long-overdue wedding ( So you’re scared and you’re thinking that maybe we ain’t that young anymore ), the many years of our marriage ( This life, this life and then the next, with you I have been blessed ), and his own work ( sick of sitting round here trying to write this book ). He rarely misses a Springsteen concert and can recite tracks, covers, and lyrics for any occasion. It was no surprise to me then that he came home from last night’s D.C. show pumped and happy as a schoolboy. At the Verizon Center, he’d run into many similarly infatuated friends trading stories of set lists, the E Street Café, and who got to hang out with the band (Rahm Emanuel back stage with Bruce and Patty!). I love my husband but this is a facination we do not share. Though I am fond of The Boss, I don’t go to concerts. I can’t deal with the crowds, the late hours, or the intense middle-aged hetero man crush of the audience. I was not born to run. Disappointed when I told him several years ago I was done shouting lyrics at a tiny figure on a far-away stage, my husband recovered quickly and now happily scrambles to score a single ticket for every tour. I go to bed early and he goes out dancing in the dark.
