Boyz II Men II Grandpas

I saw Boyz II Men perform at the MGM in Boston the other night. Somehow I’m not engaged to any of the Boyz and am in fact still single and driving Uber. I’m just as surprised as you are.

Oh but the show was so good for the soul. I expected it would be, but I could not have imagined how restorative, how actually radical an act going to see a live performance of songs that colored all of my middle and high school years would be. At one point, Shawn Stockman told everyone to turn to the person on their left, and to the other on their right, and to tell them WE’RE GONNA HAVE A GREAT TIME TONIGHT. Which is the opposite of what we were all doing when we were swaying awkwardly at a junior high dance in a dusty gym to “On Bended Knee.” Restoration comes, sometimes three decades later.

The crowd looked like me, and by that I mean everyone in the crowd all once made mixtapes without a sense of irony. They all once called their home answering machine to see if their crush left them a message while they were out at the mall, eating Boardwalk Fries in the food court while their mom tried on shoes at Dillard’s. Or while their sister perused the stickers in Spencer’s Gifts. Or while their friend returned some flannel boxers to the Gap. The venue was filled with a diversity of people of every size, shape, color, and no doubt creed but we were all paying homage to the religion that was Motown Philly in the early 90s, when life wasn’t ruled by cellphone ringtones but rather by smoooooove riddems.

Boyz II Men lost its bass along the way, and I don’t mean they lost him to the grave or anything so dramatic. I just understand he no longer performs with the group. Still, the remaining trio were still strong performers. They were all still in great shape, they danced well, they sounded amazing.

Also, they were so unbelievably dorky. And I loved them for it. Because the songs they were singing were largely syrupy ballads, but they all still held up. They were never singing just about young love and fading crushes. They were always musicians with sophisticated vocal abilities. But the trio also weren’t putting out new songs, or doing new things. They were still trotting out “End of the Road” knowing there were no new roads to begin traveling. They had no ego about who they were, and why they mattered to all these Gen Xers gathered together for such a time as this. At the end of the show, the Boyz just lingered on stage. They didn’t need to sprint off to convince us all they were Tokyo-bound tomorrow morning. They just shook hands and slapped skin with the fans who had kept them crooning all these years.

They owned that this musical canon was their bread and butter and it endeared them to people around the world. I think that’s beautiful. They kept making jokes about everyone in the building needing to sit down, or not having the agility to clap, and how they didn’t have anything better to do for the next 33 years so they might as well do this. They all looked foiiiiine, so, trust, I still don’t know why they played up their elderly status. I also still don’t understand how I went home without at least one BoyzIIMan, but there are still a few weeks until Valentine’s. I’ll be accepting any and all mixtapes with a sprinkle of Boyz’ ballads.

Bunk Bed Assembly

I am assembling a bunk bed in an otherwise empty bedroom and the metaphors abound. I am profoundly aware that I am stacking bed frames and stories upon stories upon stories.

I am here because I chose this hard, this stack of hards. I chose to leave a marriage of 17 years this last year. In this, I am not heroic. I am merely a woman who could not see a future where she could model good parenting and good partnership simultaneously, given the way a life’s fabric can shred and fray. I am here, perhaps, because I lacked imagination of a future where we rebuilt our sinking IKEA bed plank by plank. Or maybe I am here because I leaned in to my imagination, where I believed I might be capable of starting over, of co-parenting and reducing the atmospheric tension, and betting on myself.

This bunk bed will not build itself, which is fine as I enjoy the tedious meditation of Allen wrenching screws and double-checking instruction manual diagrams. My co-worker tells me I should invite a friend over to help me, but I have always enjoyed the solitude of a manual task. The times when I have had to share a job and to communicate to someone else the precise logistical maneuvers I intend to make, (rather than simply winging it) has always exposed my feverish independence. I am a firstborn with a stubborn streak and yet I am utterly at peace as I hex key my way through each bar and beam of this bunked contraption.

My bunkmate of 17 years was remarkably gifted in curiosity. He wanted to know how a thing was made, how the machine was engineered, what made a person tick. He knew how to build a thing before he set about doing the dang thing. He knew what people needed before they knew themselves. I could never project so far; my high beams were always too dim. I muddled through, killing plants and misassembling dressers so that the drawers clunked off the rails every time they opened.

This bunk bed is not a twinset but a full-over-full mattress bunk bed for the children whose limbs and senses of self are growing. Their inward and outward journeys are bewildering and beautiful to me. I am the woman who once lied on their bedroom floors for hours until they were fast asleep, but now I assemble the beds they will prefer I never come near, not even to wash the sheets they deny ever need to be washed. They are close siblings and will not allow the other to be left behind, but they will undoubtedly fight over who will get stuck with top bunk. They will stay up late debating the deeper meanings of Kendrick Lamar lyrics. Bars, man.

I carry long metal spindles and hook them into the strange catch-holes of this bedframe. This bunk bed was bought with Amazon gift cards from thankful student families who could not possibly have known how they are allowing me to build something new for my little family. How they are giving my children, and perhaps their mom, as well, a place to find rest.

Big Drive-Thru Energy

What you need to know is that I’m a good-ish driver. Except when I’m stressed, which is 89% of the time. In a stress zone behind the wheel, I do things like chew up the insides of my mouth and sweat buckets and become cartoonishly startled when someone honks. I’ve amassed a number of speeding tickets (not proud) and totaled a car before (super not proud) and even drove a motorscooter into a garage door (bought someone a new one who is not me) but I’m trying to be a better, more steady, more circumspect driver. Then my oldest kid wants to show me a video, probably a TikTok that makes a subtle reference to a classic meme that I need explained to me, and said kid is doing so whilst riding passenger, and my number one parenting strategy is to become intrigued by the things that dazzle my children. I just should probably make exceptions to doing that when I’m, e.g. operating a moving vehicle. Ah! There’s the addendum. 

That addendum obviously eluded me sometime in July, which is why when we were exiting the Rockland Wendy’s (where we had just purchased a highly nutritious meal that totally did not include a Frosty that was masquerading as a meal replacement) it was so strange when we noticed a car pulling up the narrow exit lane in the opposite direction. 

Like what the heck, did this driver not know this was an exit only lane? 

We were about to crash into an oncoming car, when lo! I realized that because of my TikToking While Driving, I was actually driving through the Drive-Thru in the wrong direction. 

Not only was I blocking a whole stream of cars, but I had passed all signage and windows and other Giant Throbbing Clues that would have easily tipped me off that I was the bozo. 

As I tried to reverse on a curve, a feat that should not be attended by any old station wagon whipping amateur, my oldest child and I waved hello to the drive-thru cashier who had seen us advance in the wrong direction and now reverse in the right direction. His 15 ½ year-old face was one of bemusement. Apparently I was his first. 

We then passed a bright bay window of all the rest of the employees, whose collective age was 17. They had gathered to see what I hope was the highlight of their whole collective summer: a woman and her kid in a Subaru who apparently don’t know how drive-thrus work. YOU SAW IT HERE FIRST, FOLKS. I believe they were even grabbing their phones to document this seminal moment on TikTok. Full Circle! Also, we are no longer welcome at the Rockland Wendy’s.