Happy Birthday, G

Author's Note:  I wrote this two weeks ago while feeling nostalgic and decided to hold on to it for G's birthday.  You're welcome.

Countdown to The Package: Two months and nine days.

You may be wondering why a seemingly normal individual such as myself (okay, normal is loosely defined in this instance) maintains such a giddy, juvenile attachment to a boy band I couldn't even admit to liking for fear of public stoning back in the day when they were actually relevant (and relevant is also loosely defined in this instance). 

And though I would rather have stuck a fork in my eye than be seen at one of their concerts back in 1990, I am not hesitating to openly and publicly humilate myself on this blog, facebook, and potentially the windows of my car while driving down I-90 on June 9th.

Scott's humoring of these forays back to the sixteen-year-old version of myself that he never knew rank way above a reasonable level of expectation. Considering he has already endured me attending 2 solo Joe Mac and 1 solo Jordan Knight concert (from as far back in the room as possible to hide my shame) in addition to the NSYNC Celebrity Tour.  It seems to be his cross to bare (or bear?).

So hear is the only explanation I can offer...

NKOTB = D&G (not Dolce & Gabana in this scenario)

D&G = Just about every weekend from age 14 - 18 in the living room of D's parents home; drinking Pepsi from glass bottles, making mini pizza's from english muffins; writing fictional love stories one level below Sweet Valley High quality; having Dream A Little Dream, The Lost Boys, and Young Guns on continuous VCR loop; and jumping over "the line of insanity" which was actually a seam in D's mom's living room carpet.  (Also, I think I just made appropriate use of a semi-colon.)

High school weekends = Getting in D's car at 2 a.m. (G always in shotgun) and driving with the windows down no matter the temperature outside while blasting the Dead Milkmen and plotting out how quickly we would get out of Dodge after graduation. And driving back home once we ran out of things worthy of shouting about, because we couldn't talk in normal voices with the windows down.

2 a.m. car rides  = A feeling of contentedness that, despite the fact that grades 7 - 12 were the most awkward of my life, I had one place I could go and feel completely accepted.  I mean, they may have given me the nickname White Bread, but at least I knew they didn't care that I was.

Sure there have been other times in my life, and there have been and continue to be other people in my life, that make me feel that way, but that was the time I needed it the most.

So later when you see incriminating pictures of me Hanging Tough, rest assured I'm just reliving that moment in the fall of 1990, when I went for a red Topaz joy ride with my two best friends and breathed cold air into my lungs until I was shivering and wouldn't have traded that moment for anything in the world.