Finally, I just experienced a dramatic surge of hormones.
Bon Jovi tickets go on sale this Saturday.
My inner eighth-grade girl is absolutely sick with anticipation. I just walked down the hall at Corporate Behemoth to get some tea, and en route to the break room I actually caught myself thinking, “OMG! What will I wear to the concert?”
Seriously. I am So. Excited.
In my mind, it will be 1988. Only I won’t have glasses and braces. And my hair will be permed, but not the nightmare perm I sported. No, I will sport Dream Perm, with bangs that are big but not too big. And my dreamy, mulleted boyfriend will pick me up in his Camaro. He’ll lift me up on his shoulders during the show, so Bon Jovi himself can see my Dream Perm, concert t-shirt and stone-washed jeans. And I’ll probably end up being in a Bon Jovi concert video, which I will surely list on my resume until I retire.
As an eighth-grade girl, that’s what I imagined teenaged nirvana to be like. As a 32-year-old woman, I’m embarrassed to say that it still doesn’t sound half bad.