I have a date tonight.
Kinda. Sorta.
OK, not really.
But I am going to the last Badger men's basketball regular season home game.
This means I get to watch the muscles of my favorite men twist and contour into beautiful shapes as they stretch their godlike bodies in ever-so-manly ways. I will almost taste the beads of sweat drip down their angelic faces as they aim to please the crowd. I restrain myself from going to the concession stand and stuffing my face with nachos, just in case one of them decides to look in my direction and undress me with his eyes.
When I go to sporting events, my heart beats rapidly. I get nervous, my pits sweat and I wonder if I left the stove on. I forget every word to On Wisconsin."" These boys just do it for me every time.
And no, I'm not talking about the basketball players. I am referring to the real men in the stadium - the members of the UW band. But before I upset any of the female band players, I'd like you to know that yes, I am in love with you too, and have contemplated following some of you into bathroom stalls when I've spied you actually waiting in line with us mortals at Camp Randall.
I love music, I love dancing and I love to sing - the problem is I can't. I've always wished I had musical skill, mostly so I'd have a unique talent that I could brag about and bust out at parties or during inopportune moments and places - like the library, yoga classes and overseas airplane rides.
Unfortunately, the music gods must have foreseen my selfish intentions and, being omnipresent, have permanently cock-blocked me from achieving any sort of musical success.
When I entered college, I decided this was my last shot to be a part of the music-making process. So I decided I was going to go big, practice my badass marching skills and be the next drum major. I figured since they didn't have to actually play an instrument, all I would have to do was learn to parade around with a large baton, throw it up in the air and catch it, and befriend Mike Leckrone.
Needless to say, my plan backfired. I marched all over campus, up Bascom Hill, up the stairs at the SERF and into various random dorm rooms. Still, I never got that call from the band begging me to join. The only thing I got was a restraining order, requested by the Mikey himself.
I've since taken up other hobbies, like writing, but calling yourself a ""writer"" is kind of lame, especially if you write bad, angsty poetry (which I don't). You can't be at a party and bust out the latest rendition of your short story or set up your computer and have people willingly observe you typing for entertainment - plus anyone who's watched ""Sex and the City"" automatically thinks all 21-year-old female journalism majors aspire to be the next Carrie Bradshaw.
It used to sadden me to think that I'd never be part of the process that produces a truly good song. For a while, I thought all I could do was listen to trashy radio stations or write the odd CD review, but lately I've been thinking I have one more shot at being a musician - at least vicariously - by making one fall in love with me. I figured that maybe in the future I would have a child who would be a musical genius and whose talents could fill stadiums - or at least her controlling mother with pride.
Since I've made this decision, I started stalking artsy or folksy musicians after they played small shows. I'd follow them into record stores, coffeehouses and the places they'd meet their drug dealers for inspiration. But with just a little bit of experience, I realized they had no college degrees, were probably poor and had pseudo-sensitive personalities.
So I decided to become a follower of a more polished, refined and upbeat kind of musician. I'm now currently stalking the entire band. I'm at your practices. I'm on your bus rides. I'm on to you.
If you'd like to make beautiful music with Ashley, e-mail aaspencer@wisc.edu.
