When you aren't old, but you are no longer 'young.' [Moving from the lawn to the pavilion].

In eighth grade, I looked up the lyrics for "Sugar We're Going Down," wrote them down and memorized them for the school dance. I was going through an "emo" phase and also really enjoyed "Grand Theft Autumn" and "Calm Before the Storm" from Fall Out Boy's debut album. At age 30, I found some renewed love for FOB (after loosely following them throughout the years) and was listening to a lot of the OG content.

On my and Brad's first date, I mentioned liking Fall Out Boy. As long as I live, I will never forget the smile that lit up his entire face. Later, I learned that after that date, he went to his car, punched the ceiling, screamed "YES!" and played the album 'Infinity on High' on his drive home.

Last night, I attended my first-ever FOB concert, and Brad attended his seventh. For context, Brad quite literally can sing every lyric of every FOB song ever made. The concert was an incredible experience, but the most special part was witnessing Brad's palpable joy. There were a couple songs we felt "meh" about (in a JAM-PACKED set list); Brad would say, "I don't love this song" and then immediately follow that statement with dancing and singing at the top of his lungs.

However, the concert brought to life some uncomfortable feelings that I am still processing. In many ways, I feel a deep sense of ... unbelonging. Let me try to explain.

Age

Being in your early-thirties is a weird time. Half of your friends are still partying every weekend and the other half are on their third child (we are doing neither).

Instead of pregaming with drinking games before a concert, you take a nap so you have enough energy to make it to midnight. Then, you wake up the next morning, and your neck cracks simply because you took too heavy of a breath.

The concert demographic was heavily mixed. While we are in no way "old," it was very evident that we are no longer "young." We don't understand fashion trends. We don't know any hip words or phrases. We were thrilled to hear songs that came out before some of the concert attendees were born. And I refuse to part my hair down the middle and give up my skinny jeans.

Socioeconomic status

Brad and I, historically, are "lawn people." Lawn tickets are the cheapest tickets. Last night, however, we were pavilion people. But JUST BARELY (picture below). Our row was the VERY last row seated under the pavilion covering, and it was so incredibly symbolic of how I felt. We aren't lawn people anymore, but we aren't pavilion people either. For me, having enough disposable income to buy a $22 drink (even though I walked away while Brad was paying so I didn't have to HEAR the cost, despite being acutely aware of how much it was) ... is still unsettling for me.

Loneliness

Brad and I differ when it comes to "concert personalities." Trust me, while I LOVE a small venue with an intimate setting, there is something so cathartic about a sold-out stadium, singing along with 20,000+ other people, knowing that the same lyrics that impact me also impact them. There is a feeling of unity amongst complete strangers. Of connectedness. Last night, however, felt lonely. There was one song in particular that Brad and I were JAMMING to; I glanced around our barely-covered section, and we were the ONLY people who seemed to even know the song.

I don't know. My thoughts last night seemed very poignant in my own brain, but today, they are jumbled. I talked to Brad about all of this, and thank goodness, he seems to understand exactly how I feel. He feels it too. He presented this FOB lyric to me:

Crowds are won and lost and won again

But our hearts beat for the diehards

Despite having these uncomfortable feelings, it is wildly comfortable to experience them with someone else. Especially when that person is your best friend and partner.

To close, I offer another FOB lyric:

I was just an only child of the universe, and then I found you.