I've spent much of the morning trying to get back in touch with my 10-year-old self.

I was surprised - and a little disappointed - that the plain white envelope had been set aside by my parents on Christmas morning. They handed it to me after I'd opened the cool presents, and I thought of it more as an afterthought than anything else. What amazingly awesome thing would fit into a little envelope?

I was confused when I opened it to find a New Kids on the Block sticker. I screamed when my parents told me what it signified.

My uncle was stationed at that point in Newport News, Virigina, and he was living on base with my aunt and two cousins - who were three and one years older than I was. NKOTB was playing in Richmond in March. They had bought me a ticket. All that stood between me and Joe (I refused to call him Joey or Joey Joe) McIntyre was a few months and about 600 miles.

When the appropriate amount of time crept by, my father and I climbed into the car and embarked on the trip. I could have slept and made the trip pass by faster, but I instead stared out the window at the scenes changing around me. The ride to Massachusetts was easy by this point, but this was four Massachusetts trips wrapped up into one. Twelve hours. And, because I didn't know at that point how tours worked, I wanted to be sure I could see the New Kids tour bus, should it amble by us on the highway.

A truck driver spotted on the Garden State Parkway traveled the same route into Virginia, and he began to wave to me each time he would see my inquisitive face peeking out the window. I got him to lay on the horn as we made our circut around D.C., and my dad laughed as I let off a peal of laughter.

Nina, Nikki and I were uncontrollable bundles of jitters the day of the show, and the adults tried to calm us with a trip to the mall. It might have worked, had we not discovered a huge collection of New Kids shirts on display at one of the stores. My father bought me a Joe shirt in all of its oversized glory - Joe's slightly blurred black and white face accented by squiggles of neon blue and pink. Ah, 1990 style. He asked if I was going to wear it to the show, and I very seriously replied that I would not. I was not going to show favortism against the other four; I was going to wear the shirt my grandfather had given me for Christmas.

I don't remember much about the trip to the actual show, although I did win the respect of those standing in line around me after I explained that I was from Vermont. I was the ultimate Blockhead - a nickname that amuses me all the more now. Those with four-hour return trips awaiting them glowered at me. I practically strutted into the venue.

I did not cry, although I wanted to, as we heard the "Let's give it up for the five hardest working kids in show biz...the N-N-N-New Kids oooooooooooon the Block!" The driving beat for "My Favorite Girl" kicked in and I was shouting, singing and dancing for a good solid two hours. I remember the sparkly jackets during "This One's For the Children," Joe's leather jacket with white music notes, the shouts of "Hey, hey, I feel alright, one time..." and Joe trying to belt out "Please Don't Go Girl" post-voice change.

I remember walking out with ringing ears and the biggest smile on my face I'd ever had; the drive back the next day was peppered with stories that began with, "And then Joe did THE CRAZIEST THING...And Donnie was INSANE...And Danny was BREAKDANCING during..."

I never entertained the notion that such stories would not leave someone absolutely amazed.

Which is why, although I know tonight's performer won't be able to come even remotely close to the experience I had courtesy of five guys from Boston, I'm ready for the post-show stories that will bubble out of my 12-year-old cousin this evening. I know she's riding with my parents (saints that they are to transport a pre-teen on such a venture) on the highway right now, probably looking out the window, willing for the time to pass by faster.

Because she's meeting up with my flatmate and I, and then we're going to see Clay (I won't add the usual expletive today) Aiken tonight. It's her first concert. I'm bringing my camera. Years from now, she'll laugh when she sees photos of her 12-year-old self, raptly singing along.