I didn't score front row center like I did awhile back, but I was pretty much in the center, in the pit, anywhere from six to three rows back. Were I a taller woman, I might have been able to reach out and stroke his pants or strum that G^$damn guitar. Were I a younger woman, I might have been able to worm my way farther up. But I'm not entirely too sure of that last statement.
My ears are ringing. My neck is killing me. My elbow is inflamed and acting all angry-like. My legs are ouchy. I sound like Demi Moore must sound after a heavy night of smoking. I'm totally wiped out.
All I have to show for it on the outside are the two wristbands -- one for general admission and one for getting in the pit -- and a T-shirt my husband-with-a-seat bought for me 'cause he figured I wouldn't be able to get out of the pit without losing precious floor space.
Inside, though, my heart still beats to the pounding of Max's drums and the strums of Little Stevie's guitar and the chords of Bruce's harmonica and the words Bruce belted out. All is right with the world because I saw Bruce last night.