It was just over four years ago that I found myself in the uncomfortable position of being eyed like the last ribeye steak at a butcher’s shop.

I was out of place, I knew it, and I was 45 minutes away from home. Reluctantly, I had agreed to take my friend Sarah to an Ani DiFranco concert at Meadowbrook, a quaint outdoor venue in the suburbs of Detroit. Yeah, I still don’t know what I was doing there.

My serious lapse in judgement was only worsened by the fact that neither Sarah nor myself were interested in one another. I know what you’re saying, “Then why did you go with her?” The only answer that I can give you, the inquisitive reader, is that I was caught in a weak moment.

It was summer, I had nothing to do–maybe I was dehydrated and in a poor state of mind, but I thought I’d give it a shot. That was mistake number one.

Mistake number two was wearing my standard issue khaki cargo shorts, tennis shoes and a short-sleeved, collared shirt.

There are no collars in Ani’s world. Collars equal corporate, and if you so much as thought about hitting the Pepsi stand at the show, you would surely be an outcast. That didn’t help my dehydration issues.

As for my attire, it only made me stick out like Fat Joe’s gut. The appropriate garb was hemp-rope necklaces, tie-dye, no shoes whatsoever and dreadlocks. Now, while I expected this going in, I thought there would at least be a few people like myself.

I was, again, very wrong. You shouldn’t expect a guy in a business suit at a Slipknot show, so why should I have expected anything else? All I knew was that I wasn’t going to go out and buy an outfit just to fit in. Besides, I don’t have enough hair to even consider dreadlocks.

Mistake number three was trying to pass myself off as some sort of semi-fan to the Ani-adoring girls, including Sarah, and feminine males in attendance. When asked what songs and albums were my favorites, I could only reference the song that was on the radio at the time.

It had something or other to do with a coffee shop. Upon my weak answer, everyone involved in the conversation stared at me like that last steak, even though none of them ate meat. We’ll substitute a veggie burger instead, but you get the point.

I knew they were thinking, “What are you doing here?”

I wanted to scream, “I don’t know, and I paid 30 bucks for this!!” That’s right, I paid to attend. Thirty bucks in the stock market over the course of four years would be worth about ten bucks now, so I just tell myself that I only lost 20 bucks. I’ve wasted more than that on a bad dinner.

By the time Ani hit the stage, I felt as if I had been there for a decade. The eccentric crowd was on to the fact that I wasn’t a true fan and I had been ostracized like a guy who had just eaten 50 cloves of garlic. I couldn’t wait for the lights to dim and the music to start so that people would stop focusing on me.

There was one last thing that I hadn’t considered and that solidified myself as the least-appreciative patron in attendance–dancing and singing along are requirements at Ani shows.

For those of you who have never seen me dance, you are quite fortunate. Elaine on “Seinfeld” had her dancing described as a “dry heave set to music,” and I think my dancing fits nicely into that category. I also didn’t know any of the lyrics to any of the songs.

I temporarily avoided dancing by pretending that a bee had stung me. That bought me about ten minutes, but the average Ani show is much, much longer than that. I then tried to move my mouth as if I knew some lyrics, but I felt the gaze of the real fans and before I knew it, I was sitting in my seat like a 40-year-old father who had taken his kid to an *NSync concert.

There was no salvaging the event at that point. I got home, reflected on my failure of an evening and gave the ladies another chance by playing the female-oriented music that I could relate to, from bands like Veruca Salt, Hole and Letters to Cleo.

It’s safe to say that I won’t be on the guest list for an Ani DiFranco show anytime soon. For the non-fan males who may be coerced into attending a future show, I beg you to carefully reflect on what I have just written, and remember, no collars and no Pepsi.