It began in seventh grade, which was a rough year for all involved. In my particular case, it was a pudgy, glasses and frizzy-haired nightmare. I was young, stupid, and ignorant to the ways of anti-frizz serum and eyeliner.
I did some pretty epic things that year.
- For a history project, I created a fictional Revolutionary War journal. I spent hours mixing the right combination of coffee and soy sauce to dye the paper the precise shade of aged light brown. I set off the smoke alarm three times burning the edges. Unfortunately, I spent almost no time on the actual journal entries, so my grade was not great. Thanks Mr. Circo.
- I became a Bat Mitzvah and had a super sweet party.
- I saw the voice of the Little Mermaid sing at the New England Aquarium. She was dressed like a total slut, but she did have red hair.
- I bought my first article of clothing with my own money: a long-sleeved Abercrombie shirt with "Abercrombie and Fitch" in bold face sans serif font on the sleeve.
- I fell in love with Angel on Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
It was more than slightly excessive. To this day, I still know all of your middle names. I made scrapbook after scrapbook collecting all the awkward photos I found in Bop, BB and Tigerbeat magazines. I spent all my money on said magazines, and wallpapered my room with pinups. Sidenote: Last year, my mom redid my childhood bedroom and screamed at me for all the holes in the walls from thumbtacks. I knew every song by heart. I had every album. I even made my father drive me to an obscure Newbury Comics location so I could buy all the imported international albums. When you released "I Need You Tonight," I told everyone I know that it was originally, "I see Heaven in your Eyes." I rambled to anyone who would listen about how in the original recording of "Quit Playin' Games" Brian sang both verses. I made my father take me to the Kiss Concert for 3 years so I could see you. I mounted several smear campaigns against *N Sync. You played a concert at the Civic Center in Providence the night before I began high school, and my mother gave me permission because I literally would not stop until she did. If you knew my mother, you would understand how stubborn she is, and how much effort this took on my part.
Years passed. You guys aged. Your albums were still great. I was still known as "That girl who is obsessed with the Backstreet Boys." Slowly, people began to join me. Once people knew about me, they felt safe admitting their love for your music. The moment I fell for my first boyfriend was the moment he admitted that he knew all the words to "I Want it That Way" and was not ashamed. He later admitted to knowing all the words to several songs on *N Sync's "No Strings Attached" album. That didn't end well. I whipped him back into shape, don't worry.
More years passed. I no longer knew the words to every song on your albums, but I knew most of them. Eventually I turned 21, and found that every time a Backstreet Boys song was played in a bar, everyone sang at the top of their lungs. Most artists have one song that achieves that kind of beer-fueled glory. Kelly Clarkson's "Since You've Been Gone" Kanye and Jamie Foxx's "Golddigger." Journey. Sweet Home Alabama. Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy. But not you. Every song of yours inspired random groups of people to do tequila shots together in the name of nostalgia. And did you know that "Larger Than Life" was a sick Amsterdam club song? Yeah.
I became a middle school writing teacher. Since I teach writing, I tell stories about my past, and as a result, all of my students (past and present) know about my obsession with you. In fact, two years ago, my 8th grade class became just as obsessed, boys and girls alike. I ended up giving away my remaining posters as prizes for a writing contest. I kept one poster though. It's so old school I love it. It's an early one, from when you had that wicked long hair... you were probably 15. I keep it over my desk at home, as a reminder of what middle school was like for me. When I want to scream at my students, quit my job, and move to the wilderness in true Thoreau style, I look at you and climb down off my panic attack ledge.
The beautiful thing about good music is that it never dies. No matter what happens to the band that created it, the songs live on and continue to make new memories. Luckily, sometime in the last couple of years you decided to go on tour with the New Kids. We've all made plenty of decisions, good and bad, but I think I speak for everyone when I say that going back on tour was the best decision you ever made. I went to your Fenway concert and OH MY GOD. I was thirteen again, screaming at the top of my lungs in the rain. I love the New Kids, too, but you all stole the show. I came into school the following Monday with no voice left, and my students totally understood.
Last night, I had an epiphany. My friend Amanda and I were driving home from a crazy night out when we had a sudden urge to listen to your music. She only had one song, Larger Than Life, so we elected to listen to it on repeat. We drove, windows down, bass turned up, screaming at the top of our lungs and then it hit me: I still love you.
Here I am, 26-years-old, still rocking out to the Backstreet Boys. This was no temporary phase. This was no middle school obsession, filed away in a box labeled, "Funny Things I Tell My Students/When I Was Your Age." The love is still there. The only person in my entire life who understood the depth of my love, the only person who never wrote it off as a fleeting obsession, was my friend Pat. He wrote in my 7th grade yearbook, "I hope Nick Carter gives you a call."
So guess what, Nick Carter? It's time for you to take Pat's advice and give me a call. I'm 26. You're 31. It's definitely time for you to fall in love with me. When I was 12, the age difference was a bit severe, but now it's totally fine. I'm pretty awesome, if I may say so myself. I can provide references if you'd like specific anecdotes supporting this. I'm attractive -- Friend me on facebook if you want to see what I look like/inappropriate status updates detailing my hatred of pants. I don't want to post my number or email on this blog entry, because it's the internet, and that's shady, but you're rich, famous and well-connected. If you don't want to go the Facebook route, I'm sure you'll find a way to get in touch with me. I live in Boston. Come fall in love with me.
Love, Leah
PS: If you go the facebook route, friend the me that's posing with dessert. The other one is my teacher account.
