Lynyrrrrrd Skynyrrrrd: This year's annual birthday concert. My husband takes me to a performance every November to help me stay in touch with the younger, hipper me.
Although I keep insisting that I'm 27, he says the only thing 27 about me is my coat.
Driving into the civic center parking lot, someone in our party gasped, "Look at all these old people."
That was the Boone's Farm talking from a red Solo cup. There's nothing like it to take the hair off a person's chest and make him feel 15 all over again.
Our tickets were in the nursing home section anyway. The usher who showed us to our seats wore hearing aids in both ears, carried a flashlight in one hand, and pulled an oxygen tank with the other.
Santa Claus, in all his red and green trousered and white-bearded glory, no joke, was in our section. He said he'd let me sit on his knee, except that his arthritis was flaring up again.
As it turns out, I couldn't perch on frisky Santa's lap anyway, because during our photo op with the jolly old elf, a mite frisky for an elderly fella, the lights went down and a guitar riffed. We dropped Santa like last year's hot toy.
When the spotlights ignited, the stage was covered with vestiges dug out of the grave. Oh, but it didn't matter.
I'm a sucker for a bass guitar and a drum beat, even if the bass guitarist looked like a long-haired, Halloween skeleton wearing snake skin pants and Superman support drawers.
Our fascination and enthusiasm yanked us out of our boots and sent us weaving our way to center front stage, looking up the very nose of death warmed over.
Boone's Farm Strawberry Hill can do a lot of things to bring back youth, but the effects, regrettably, don't last forever.
Without warning, a black foundation garment flew from the crowd and landed at the feet of the 100-year-old bass player.
He stepped away, surprised, stunned, shocked, bewildered. "That ol' guy is going to have a heart attack," I mouthed.
Not feeling too steady in his 3-inch-heel boots, he cautiously toed the C-cups toward the front edge of the stage, probably fearing his feet would tangle in it.
Or maybe he didn't want to risk getting into any of that "Linda Lou" trouble. At his pace, he'd have to ask for a heap more than "3 steps" and a good bit of Bengay.
And these days, for him, shuffling out toward the door is like playing Russian roulette with a broken hip. He's reached the phase of life when looking down the barrel of a .44 seems a good deal more appealing.
So returning the bra to the owner's husband, without making eye contact, was the best idea overall. Besides, he couldn't see Alice backstage. This was Thursday night. The little blue pill he needed for that was in the Saturday section of his days-of-the-week medicine dispenser.
Regardless, Skynyrd still had it, receding hair lines, pot bellies, and all. When they sang "Sweet Home Alabama," I almost decided to pack up the family and move there. When they encored "Free Bird," the short version, with a defibrillator handy just in case underwear entered the scene once more, I felt 15 again. And I like to think my renewal had nothing to do with Boone's Farm.
Lucy Adams is a syndicated columnist, freelance writer and author who lives in Thomson. Contact her at firstname.lastname@example.org or visit her online at www.IfMama.com.