A couple of days after we returned from Europe, we attended a concert: a reunion of The Police. My husband had never seen them perform, and I had last seen them in 1983 when on their Synchronicity tour at which I spent two hours working my way through the standing-room only crowd at a sports stadium in Oakland until I was at the front of the stage, facing Andy Summers (whom I’d swear looked at me and smiled – that’s my story, and I’m sticking to it!).
Of course, when I was a teenager all the other girls were madly infatuated with Sting, the rather handsome and emotional lead singer/bassist. I had to be different. I did not want to waste my daydreams on the Absolutely Unattainable (despite the promising insinuations of Don’t Stand So Close to Me). No, I was practical and realistic, and rather disdainful of what was perfect as I equated this with a deficiency of good character. I was instead desperately in love with Stewart Copeland. He is tall, lanky, almost (but not quite) handsome, youthful, energetic, and can play the HELL out of the drums. Physical and emotional, I sensed a dangerous passion lurking behind his eyes.
The memories of this girlhood crush returned with surprising power when the man ran onto the stage looking the same as he did 25 years earlier, excepting some wire-framed glasses. The same long-legged gait, wearing short trousers and a fitted athletic shirt, spinning his drumsticks in anticipation, and suddenly I was 17 experiencing the tight burst of emotion almost brining tears to my eyes. I stood up and screamed with the crowd.