Radiohead and a sour puss--Am I Veruca Salt?

We all have a bucket list of some sort.

Whether we take the time two write one down or just keep a mental check list, we have things we want and hope to do before we die. 

I don't keep a list compiled entirely of prominent hopes. Somethings I'd like to do before I cross those pearly gates are: see all 50 states, join a band, have a flower garden, meet Paul McCartney,  skinny dip, publish a photograph in Rolling Stone magazine, raise a family, truly help someone, write a book, run a coffee and pie shop, volunteer for something I care about, buy an outfit not on sale, see Radiohead in concert…

You might look at some of these goals and think that they are petty, selfish and meaningless in the grand scheme of life. But, this is my list and I'm sticking to it. 

Last week, I got to check one of those items off my endlessly growing tally. For my birthday (age and gray hair, let's not go there) my husband purchased us tickets for a Radiohead concert in St. Louis. YES! 

The day started wonderfully, we finished teaching, packed our things, kissed our furry babies goodbye and hit to road for STL. We were early, so we found a mall and I dived head first into the sales wracks of some of my favorite stores. 

Later, we arrived at our hotel, met up with his brother, sister-in-law and  their two friends, and went to dinner. The day was going ideally. 

With the concert and some sort of haunted house convention occurring in the area, service was slow at our restaurant of choice. While passing the time, our companions looked at their print-out tickets to check the start time. 

Earlier, I asked my man if he had the tickets and he said not to fret because all we had to do was swipe our credit card for entrance. Great. Easy. No worries. 

During this time, the look of doubt appeared in his eyes and he began feverishly checking his phone to make sure he read the directions correctly. 

"Are you sure we didn't need to print them?," I asked about the tickets. Yes, he was sure. Then what could possibly be the worry? 

Hubby started questioning if he had the correct credit card with him to do the swipe thing.

**Before I continue, this post was not written to rag about my husband's  poor planning skills (although I easily could). He's busy going to graduate school, teaching, and working.**

I know he was simply trying to make sure everything went smoothly, that there was no threat of not seeing one of my favorite bands and that he was just trying to make me happy. Yes, somehow this was my fault. 

Awkward silence descended on our table of acquaintances and siblings. While he spent the next 45 minutes "figuring things out" and not letting me talk to him…I saw 'redrum'. 

How could this happen? Just the threat of it was enough to anger me. I couldn't speak because I knew something nasty, spoiled and un-loving would come spewing out of my mouth. I knew anger was seeping through every pore and the silence at our table was my doing. 

I was unconsolable, unapproachable and the darn service couldn't get any slower. 

One person told me it would be fine. Another said there was no way we could not get in. And another said I could go in her place if it came down to it. 

That wasn't the point. I knew we would get into the concert. It was, for some reason, that my perfect day had experienced one small speed bump. The look of terror on my husband's face did not help the situation either. Am I that scary? 

I kept telling myself throughout my silent mental breakdown that it really didn't matter. But it really did. Why?

How could I act so spoiled? How could I feel so selfish? There is so much more happening in the world that deserves this kind of anger-- this kind of energy. One band composed of middle aged Brits making pleasantly organized chaotic noise and jumping around with thousands of dollars in musical instruments, soundboards, pedals and pretty lights should not have this kind of effect on someone. 

I was like a little girl not getting a new Barbie doll at the store. 

I later asked my mother (muse, mentor, sanity, conscience) if I was wrong for feeling so desperate about it. She, of all people, would be the first and most outspoken to tell me I was a fool. I was expecting her to tell me so, but she said no. 

"This is important to you," she said. She followed that by saying how passionate I was, especially about music, and it was something that mattered to me. 

She was right. But, could you imagine if I was that passionate about something meaningful? 

Looking at the bigger picture and the things that upset us as a society can be laughable--bad hair days, out of style clothing, poor service, not enough money, not enough friends, not enough sex, other people's problems or preferences--the list can go on. 

However, looking back at my petty predicament, if the situation were to repeat itself I know I would still be mad at the threat of being disappointed. 

Is it enough of an excuse to say that that's just the way we are? Am I the result  of excess? Should I throw away my bucket list and only write things that could have a lasting effect on the world? Should I even have a bucket list?

I don't have an answer. But, I will never stop thinking that we all have a little Veruca Salt from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory in us and it can be frightening when it sneaks out. 

By the way, we got into the concert without a problem and Radiohead put on a great show… I got my Barbie.

-Stephanie