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prepare.
    ***************
    Operation “Make Jon fall in love with me” included the following steps:
    1. Lose seven pounds to get to 125
    2. Find the perfect outfit
    3. Identify all the different scenarios that could occur
    4. Determine and practice a response to all scenarios identified
    Step one would be easy: skip the cafeteria pizza and do some of my mom’s Jane Fonda tapes. Step two required an inventory of my closet.
     Nothing outfit-wise struck me as just right, but I did have a white leather jacket that fit me perfectly and a pair of low, but sexy white pumps. I just needed a dress. A trip to the mall would fix that, and I found a light pink
     sleeveless number that went down to my knees and hugged my curves. Done.
    For the last two steps, I would need to imagine all the possible ways Jon would act. For instance, if he was cocky, I imagined myself saying, “Think of all the fans who support you. You would be nothing without
     us. NOTHING!” I couldn’t really imagine him being anything but lovely, but one had to prepare. I practiced my responses in the mirror until I felt I was ready.
    And then the day came.
    I got dressed, teased my long, permed, and frosted hair to the sky, and stepped out to enter the limo as an eighties goddess. The contest winners were two female friends in their twenties who were as psyched as I was, and we were accompanied by Cat and another DJ, Rick Michaels. The mood was
     giddy as we jammed out to music on the thirty-minute ride to the Richfield Coliseum on a warm May day.
    Several groupies were gathered around the area where the band buses and VIP guests pulled up. Suddenly, everyone in the limo took notice
     that from the waist up I looked exactly like Jon, especially with hair, leather jacket, and shades. Cat suggested that I pop out of the moon roof and give the groupies a show.
    “You think it’ll work?”
    “Try it.” The girls in the limo egged me on.
    “OK…” I jumped up on the seat so that my top half was showing and raised my hand with my three middle fingers folded down and waved
     my pinky and thumb in the classic “Rock on!” sign. The groupies went crazy. When the limo parked and I got out—obviously no longer a man, they started shouting, “FUCK YOU!”
    Heh, I thought. I’m about to meet my soul mate, so
     fuck YOU!
    We made our way through the melee near backstage—sound guys and wires were crisscrossing us—until we arrived in a large holding room with about fifty other radio station representatives and various guests. I
     could hardly deal. My skin was crackling with excitement, and I sat with my hands underneath my thighs to keep from biting my nails.
    We waited. For over an hour, we waited. I barely spoke to anyone because I was there for me, and I wanted to be inside my head preparing.
    Cat, noticing my tension, said, “You know, I don’t want you to be disappointed if it’s just Tico who comes out.” Now, I loved Bon Jovi for the sum of its parts, and one of those parts was the drummer, Tico Torres. But
     I had not come this far to just see TICO. No fucking way. As this thought bounced around my head, I became more anxious. But then I looked down the long hallway that led to the holding room, and there was Jon walking toward us. I
     grabbed my camera.
    It sounds cliché, but it really felt like everyone disappeared, and it was just me and him, separated only by a hundred yards. No one had noticed him yet, and I watched him walk toward the room, as if in slow
     motion, dressed in tight leather pants and a cut-off shirt. He was smaller than I expected—maybe five-eight and thin—and he looked tired. I could feel tears well up, and I pinched myself on the thigh to get it together.
    When he entered the room, several handlers marshaled him over to us. Apparently, as the concert sponsors, our group got first dibs. Cat and the others stood up, but I remained seated, frozen, and he stopped right at the base of my chair, shaking their hands, looking