I Met John Taylor

One might say that John Taylor was my first true love. I always said that until I got a little older and realized that love and infatuation were different things. But maybe they aren't different to a 12 year old.

It didn't seem so the last time I saw Duran Duran live. Remember that? One of my top 5 happy moments as I bounced up and down yelling out the lyrics to Planet Earth at the top of my lungs while my confident husband stood behind me holding my beer and purse and laughing himself into oblivion. He still falls into a fit of hysterics if you ask him about me at a Duran Duran concert all slapping his knee, throwing his head back and gasping for air, saying, "And then...hahahahaha...and then she....hahahaha." He can even finish a sentence.

Anyway, when I was 12 and spent hours and hours dreaming of my fated meeting with this beautiful man never, ever in my wildest dreams did I think I would be battling wrinkles, gray hairs and huge, milky rack; this isn't how I saw it happening. In reality, that is how it went it down and I am just thankful that I didn't come up to the table with baby vomit, poop or urine on me.

John Taylor was signing his new book so I met my friend Robyn at the Barnes and Noble on 54th and Lexington in Manhattan today.



We gave a gentle, far away hug, so unusual for me, because Ingram was nestled down in the Moby. And there we waited, in the BnN for 90 minutes before we caught a glimpse of the man who would send the crowd of mostly middle-aged women into a frenzy.



And then we waited some more. And we creeped forward in the line. We filled the time with stories and a quick Judaism 101 for me since I know nothing about it but really ought to know given the active Jewish community surrounding us now. There was also what Tim and I call the "fan off" where the people on either side of you are all about one-upping each other with examples of what dedicated fans they are. Compared with some of these people I am a really shitty fan. Nevertheless, at first I felt all excited and full of anticipation. Hey, I was on my way to meet my teenage heart-throb! It was fueled when we passed by JT signing books.

See him back there. Yep. I was soooo close.

But we still had a long ways to go. By the time we got from the childrens section to the travel and then history sections 90 minutes later Ingram was getting rooty. The raucous group in front of us wasn't helping. People were getting a little punch drunk from all the waiting. I tried to hold him off with 2 ounces of formula. The boy wasn't having it.

Yup. Moby with baby one on the front and backpack on the back. By the time I got home my back was breaking.  And look at that. All Ingram wants to know is where in the hell the boobs are?

I thought he pooped, which was a false alarm but I changed him anyway. Then I heard it and felt it and smelled it. Robyn cupped his little hiney in her hand, lifting him slightly to meet her nose, "Yep," she confirmed, "you got a stinky one there." Ugh. So once again I dropped to my knees and between the womens studies and psychology racks I changed a blow-out, breast-milk poopy diaper. It was on his elbow. It was on his feet. It was freaking everywhere! Robyns son is about the same age as Ada so this was no problem. She swung into 'solve it' mode and stashed the dirty diaper and wipes in one plastic bag, swiftly disposing of the stench in a trash bin far away from us, and the soiled onesie and changing pad in another bag. I took a minute to regroup then stood up for round two: standing up, holding the fussy baby and breast feeding about 10 feet from the subject of my hormonal teenage fantasies. For real.

At last we were at the corner: John Taylor was just around the bend. The time had come so I put my top back together and juggled my son in one hand while getting the camera and plastic bagless book ready with the other (the plastic bag had a higher calling). We tossed our stuff on the floor in a pile. I handed my book to a lady who handed it to John for signing and handed my camera to an assistant clearly hired for the purpose of taking pictures with other peoples cameras. Then I approached the table.

John Taylor looked up, my signed book in his hand. He looked at Ingram and said, "Oh, tiny baby." He handed me my book and made about 0.01 seconds of eye contact. I weakly said, "thanks" and scurried off while he gazed to his left looking for the next person waiting in line. There was barely time to take it all in.

Oh my God. Why does my face do that stupid thing when I'm super happy and excited? Why? No wonder he can't or won't look at me. 

That was it?

That is what I waited 28 years for? Man, I feel disappointed. Where was the witty banter? Jesus. Just ask me my sons name for crying out loud. Tell me I look great for just squeezing out a 10# baby 2.5 months ago. Freaking say anything to me.



Let me put it this way: Duran Duran will always hold in their famous hands my memories of a simpler, dare I say it, happier time in my life. When I hear their music I think of those naive early years when I really believed anything was possible and life was fair. Their music makes me happy and it always will. I don't know. Maybe he was jet lagged. Maybe he got some bad news this morning. Maybe he's getting the flu. Maybe it's because my attention was in three different directions and none of them included him. I want to give him the benefit of the doubt cause we all have days when we just aren't feeling it.
I think this is the last time I'll do something like this. It's time to settle down. I'm so grateful I have a career and family to fall back on since it seems that John Taylor and I aren't meant for each other after all. I'm just glad that I came to that realization while I was still a teenager and not at the age of 40!