Grown up crushes

My daughters are in San Antonio tonight. I suspect if they ever admitted the real reason it would be because they wanted a sisters’ getaway, which I heartily approve. But the reason they give is that they are there for the John Mayer concert tomorrow night. Both are grown women—surely they don’t mind my saying they are in their forties—and to my mind should have outgrown such, but they are so crazy about this singer that they once went to Chicago to a concert. He was in Dallas last night, and Jordan said if she could get a ticket, she’d go. I protested that she would see him Saturday night in San Antonio, but I was met with an eye roll and something about if he’s in your hometown. I did not point out that we live in Fort Worth and Dallas is not her hometown. No matter, she didn’t find a ticket.

I first heard of Mayer several years ago when I was editing fiction for a small press. A woman whose writing I liked a lot—Holly Gilliatt—had written a chick lit novel titled, Till St. Patrick’s Day, a line taken straight from a Mayer song. You cannot copyright titles, so she was in the clear using that, but she wanted to quote lyrics. If I remember correctly, Mayer was agreeable, but the recording company was not. The music business is pretty cut-throat.

The gist of the story—and of his song—had to do with singles, young and dating. If you were in a relationship in the fall, you wanted it to last through Thanksgiving and Christmas, because who wants to be alone during the holidays. And then, God forbid you should not have a significant other on New Year’s Eve. Next, quickly down the calendar comes Valentine’s Day, and everyone knows you need a sweetie on February 14. So you made the relationship last. But then the next big day is St. Patrick’s Day. Meh. Who cares? It’s okay if you break up by then. I liked the novel a lot more than the premise behind it.

Because my daughters were so taken with Mayer, I read a long interview with him. I tend to do that—when my oldest son went to an evangelical church, I went with him one Sunday to see what it was like. When my oldest daughter was reading Danielle Steele, I plowed through one of her novels. Neither of those were enlightening experiences, but now I read the interview with Mayer. My impression? A man coming into middle age who was making the most of his angst. In fact making a career and a huge profit off his angst. Needless to say, that is not a popular opinion with the girls in my family.

I did venture to suggest that they reminded me of the teenage girls who swooned over Frank Sinatra. Old as I am, that was before my time, but I’ve seen pictures. When I said that to Jordan, I got a blank look. Do you suppose she even knows who Sinatra was?

So they are off. Jordan looking cute in all black—does she ever wear color—with a T-shirt that says “JM,” flying to San Antonio, and Megan driving from Austin to meet her. I hope they have a good time, but I will be glad to have them safe back where they belong on Sunday night.

Do we ever stop worrying about our kids? I don’t think so.