So the concert was last night. The wonderful, sparkly, amazing, firework-booming, flames-shooting, confetti-dropping, screaming-every-two-seconds concert. Where bottles of water cost $5, Backstreet Boys would magically pop out of nowhere, Donnie walked into the audience to drink someone’s beer, the guys changed outfits for every song, and nothing was ever as it seemed. When the lights came up, my throat was raw and I couldn’t hear a thing. Thanks to my summer research project, I could sing along with nearly all of the Backstreet Boys songs. And now it’s all over, and nothing exciting will ever, ever, ever happen to me ever again in my entire life. I mean, what do I possibly have to look forward to now? Friends? Family? The love of my husband? The laughter of my child? I mean, how does that compare to NKOTB rising up out of a fog-machined stage singing Hangin’ Tough while wearing bedazzled Boston Celtics jerseys? It can’t, my friends. It can’t.
I mean, they were sparkly jerseys with their last names on the back of them.
Now all I can do is lie around listlessly in my NKOTBSB concert t-shirt and absentmindedly doodle “Mrs. Donnie Walhberg” on scraps of paper while I wait for them to release an overpriced concert DVD. Which I will pre-order and watch on the very day it is released.
Here’s a very blurry, far-away photo of Donnie singing the best rendition of Cover Girl I’ve ever seen. You’re welcome.