Recently, I traveled to the marriage of my baby nephew to a person whose family, I can only assume as they are from Indianapolis, (a foreign land almost four hours from here unless you drive like my son and teleport,) considers his female counterpart to be toddler-aged. Shockingly, they were not only allowed to be married, a serious condition known to end in death, one way or the other, but were celebrated as they took this step in broad daylight.
Now, both children claimed to be in their mid-twenties, but as all parents know, the time it takes to pass twenty years lasts longer than the time it takes to pass a large kidney stone, which is forty or fifty years. So, for this couple of tots to claim that they had achieved the advanced years needed to marry was less than believable for most attending adults, but once a priest throws holy water around there’s no getting out of things, so there you go.
But the subject of this blog is not this sham marriage (Congrats to them, btw. Despite their lack of age credentials, I’m sure they’ll be mostly happy, so long as they take their naps and eat regularly.) My subject today, as you’ve probably guessed, is hearing loss.
Yes, hearing loss, a parents-were-right-kind of affliction, which, in my case, is most likely the result of having musician friends in my twenties.
Aside from being lots of fun and a good source of varying and sundry pills, (I’m kidding, of course. Musicians are well-known for their sober lifestyles and rarely, if ever, alter their brain configurations with illicit pharmaceuticals unless someone offers them, as musicians are often too poor to pay for their own beer and cigarettes, let alone what used to be know as “the good stuff.”) musicians can be hazardous to your health.
Now, you may be asking yourself, “Jamie? Are you trying to say you were a drug abuser as a child?”
No kiddies. Despite close association with with people who rattled as they walked, if they could walk at all, I missed out on that experience as I was afraid of heights and odd smells. I’m serious. I never even achieved a contact high. Let that be a lesson to you. You decide which kind.
Anyway, my point was, and I have completely lost it, um…drugs are bad and…AND I am nearly deaf because of the existence of musicians. There!
This is how it happened.
Once upon a time, I grew 21 years and as a result was compelled to drink alcohol in establishments that grew musicians. These musicians became more like friends, if you’re friends scream at you in a rhythmic fashion through large amplifiers.
Still, these particular friends performed British Invasion music, which made them the pied piper to my rat, or some less repulsive analogy. (These, by the way, are not the same people who partook in illegal substances. Those are an entirely different set of musician friends.)
Most often these completely drug-free individuals would play in night clubs and bars, where I’ll admit to drinking Amaretto Sours, a totally eighties drink of which I no longer partake and frankly, am a little surprised I did so at the time, but it was a different era and you could tell that by the large hair and enormous shoulder pads.
While at these dens on iniquities, and sometimes Denny’s of iniquities afterward, my preference was to sit near enough to the band, to watch them hop about in an adorable fashion and also maintain proximity to the dance floor where I would hop about in a different kind style of adorable fashion.
These two factors collided with my youthful decision to cozy up against amps which would rattle my teeth, buzz my toes, or the other way around, hard to tell in that situation, and render me deaf for hours after each event, which took place on the average of 3 times a week, for a handful of years. And I liked it.
That’s how you can tell you’re too young to get married in the mid-twenties, although I was already married so it made more sense. (Do you see what rock music does to you?)
So, flash forward to the baby wedding. I’m standing outside of a restaurant when my sister-in-law asks me if I’m petite. I’m flattered, I have to say, since petite has always been an unattainable goal for me. I answer, “No! I wish!”
My husband leaned into my megaphone and yelled, “ SHE SAID, FATIGUED! ARE YOU FATIGUED?”
Sadly, I agreed that I was. I was also fatigued.
Later, that same night, my lovely niece who claims to be a grown woman with a husband and child who is not her brother (the groom,) asked me a question that I found amusing, so I laughed heartily. I don’t remember the source of my laughter, but that’s another cautionary tale.
She smiled at me like you smile at someone who thinks they are making fun balloon animals and is, in fact, not, and says, “NO, REALLY. IS YOUR DRESS NEW?”
This really isn’t the sort of question which results in peals of laughter so I considered explaining my mistake to her, but assumed she’d be less than intrigued by my story of hearing loss so, instead I told all of you.
So, either take this as a warning to stay away from musicians or as a reason I tend to laugh inappropriately. In either case, It’s not snowing! Why do you ask?