Living Mad

The Eras Tour was a space of feminine empowerment. Left and right, girlies are complimenting outfits, accessories, echoes of “you look amazing” among strangers. And yes, we looked amazing, but also, I could feel the intention behind these affirmations. The familiar, outstretched hand of empathy … giving that compliment was also an act of validation and camaraderie. That “girl, I LOVE your boots” was also an acknowledgment of the bravery and vulnerability it can take to dress loud and be unashamed. A nod of understanding, a “yes, I feel it too.” We could feel how special this event and this gathering of people was. How unique it felt compared to all the other concerts and large gatherings I’ve been to before.

This WAS Barbie Land. Even the men there fell into the quiet roles of “Ken” and “Alan,” knowing they were not the main characters. Not tonight. This night was for the women and the soft-hearted. Those who usually came second in the law of patriarchy. Walking through that football stadium, usually filled with beer, sneakers, and balding sports fans, to see queens and queers live-laugh-love-ing in the most authentic of ways, well, it felt symbolic. It felt empowering. It felt safe.

I attended the show alone, with one friend working the event, and another walking me to the stadium, taking pictures, and dropping me off like a proud mom on her child’s first day of school. She had gone the night before, and I could feel the support and happiness as she knew what was in store for me. There was palpable anticipation … but also a sense of intentionality and fully being in the moment, an acute awareness that this night was fleeting; that this energy and gathering was not one that happens enough. An awareness tucked away neatly behind the excitement, not overshadowing it, but letting the enjoyment of the night take charge, as I made my way through a sea of pink, sequins, black thigh-high boots, snakes, and butterflies.

Selfies, group photos, and offers to snap a pic for someone you didn’t know and proceeding to fill their camera roll with paparazzi shots of various angles and poses so you could be sure they had the perfect picture. They didn’t need to ask, you just knew.

I belted out lyrics with tears streaming down my face, in unison with 69,000 strangers, to songs that collectively shaped us.

And at the end of the night when I walked alone to the car, wearing my sheer tights, sequin blazer and matching boots (feet aching), with sparkles in my hair and flushed cheeks, a voice called out “Did you have a good time?” I put my head down, answered a quick and stark “Yes.” in the storied way of offering compulsory politeness while shutting down additional conversation, and I kept walking. Snapped back to reality, I tried to not look like I was searching for my friend’s car, like I knew exactly where I was going. I wanted no trace of vulnerability; I was not a damsel in distress.

After dozens upon dozens of strangers talked to me, traded bracelets with me, exchanged details about our lives … as soon as I left the bubble of the stadium and crowds of sparkled fans, I had one man acknowledge me and ask me a question. I could feel the physical change in my body. It stood out in stark contrast and felt like an invasion of the peace I had been basking in.

Why should that simple, and most likely harmless, question shift my entire demeanor? The spell had ended, the enchantment was over. And he entered that world uninvited. The attention was unwelcome, and with it I wanted to be invisible again. Even if it was harmless, the fear was there. Uninvited, unwelcome. I was a woman, alone in a parking garage with nobody else except that man. I went on my way, locked myself in the car, took off my shoes, and closed my eyes replaying the concert in my mind until my friend arrived.