The Concert That Should Have Been About Me
There was a concert in town—the concert everyone at school had been buzzing about for months. My favorite band was headlining, and my friends and I planned to go together. We coordinated everything down to our outfits (yes, there were group texts and all), but I decided my presence needed that extra “wow” factor. It wasn’t enough just to attend. I was convinced I’d somehow end up on stage, get a shout-out, or even a backstage invite. After all, I had tagged the band in at least five Instagram posts leading up to it. Surely, they’d recognize my dedication.
The night of the concert, I wore my carefully planned outfit, complete with the band’s T-shirt and a “mystery” bandana tied to my wrist—because if they called me on stage, I wanted something iconic. We got to the venue early, and as soon as I stepped in, I knew the night was set to revolve around me. I just needed to make it happen.
The band started, and I was hyped beyond reason. Halfway through the set, I figured it was time to initiate my big move. I elbowed my way closer to the stage, waving my hands with a sense of purpose I assumed would scream “superfan.” When I was close enough to get the lead singer’s attention, I did the ultimate, most courageous thing: I screamed the lyrics as if I were duetting with him, leaning in and pointing like we were partners in musical crime. I could already picture the security guard offering me a VIP pass for my “passion.”
Instead, the security guy handed me something else entirely: a warning look. He wasn’t impressed with my “duet” efforts, and I got the hint that no one really appreciated my personal interpretation of “I deserve the stage.”
But things escalated (as they often do). Determined to get my due moment, I launched a mini chant. Just a few people around me, then more, until I thought the entire audience was with me. Only they weren’t chanting my name or the band’s. They were laughing at my failed attempt to start something big. The horror of it sank in as my friends shot me looks of pity and a little disbelief.
The concert went on, and I was left with a wave of teenage mortification—no stage invite, no band shout-out. The next day at school, my friends recapped my “performance,” complete with impressions of my desperate air-grab at the lead singer. At the time, I vowed never to return to that venue again.
Lesson learned: no one’s out there reading minds or awarding concert appearances based on fandom intensity. Looking back, it was a pretty brutal dose of humility. The concert wasn’t about me, but at least I managed to make a memory—even if it wasn’t the one I planned.
