What Happens When A Super Fan Attends Britney Spears's Lingerie Launch

They say your life flashes in front of your eyes before you die. Yesterday, as Britney Spears exited stage left following her “speech” at the New York Public Library for the launch of her lingerie line, The Intimate Britney Spears, I was suddenly transported into the basement of my childhood home in suburban Pittsburgh. The image of me as tween me crooning out “I’m Not A Girl Not Yet A Woman” into my karaoke machine whilst emoting into the VHS camera lens that my sister was holding was filmed for MTV’s Fanatic audition circa TRL. MTV producers would eventually see the video and call to interview me, which would end in my legs becoming entrapped in the phone’s chord as I dramatically slid down the bathroom door, onto the tile floor where I’d lay in child’s pose sobbing happy tears. My dreams were so close to becoming a reality! I was going to meet Britney Spears! Except, it never happened. Anyway, I gave up on that dream. I thought I matured. My world was fine without meeting Britney Spears. I mean, I’ve met Patti Smith and Scary Spice, isn’t that enough? But then about 2.5 weeks ago I received THE EMAIL with yesterday’s invite, which resulted in my octave-jumping squeals on Ludlow Street. I guess it wasn’t as psycho as tween me with the crying-on-the-bathroom-floor meltdown, but have you witnessed the psychosis that occurs in LES on Friday nights? The invite featured a gorgeous photo of Britney clad in lingerie and included, in a tiny font, “with introduction by Britney at 2:00pm.” I could suddenly feel the Holy Spear-it in the air.

Let me cut to the chase. I didn’t meet Britney Spears yesterday, even though I desperately tried by emailing the publicists things like, “A photo with Britney would make the piece really solid.” Their reply? “No photos with Britney. No interviews with Britney, but you can get quotes during her introduction.” And while I tried my damndest (did I mention my outfit? A T-shirt that read SPEARS 81—her year of birth—paired with, in homage to Godney, sweat pants?), a tete-a-tete was not in the cards. So the presentation went down like this:

A very well-lit room featured rows of white chairs on a white carpet and adorned with white ribbons. Behind the photo pit, was a stage concealed by a white curtain. When a strange twinkling music box with a side of electronica music began to play, I jumped out of my seat and bolted to the second row. Then, a Godney voiceover greeted us, saying goosebump-inducing things like, “This is the art of being a woman and remembering the feelings of a girl…The Intimate Britney Spears Collection.” Alas, the curtain opened. Models playfully strutted onto the stage one-by-one in the really cute lingerie, posing for the cameras, then moving aside, a sassy model would sashay into her seat in front of a vanity while pretending to douse herself in perfume (one of Britney’s many fragrances, no doubt). Then it all becomes a blur. I blinked and suddenly there she was: Godney. She grabbed the mic and cooed: “I hope y’all enjoy this just as much as I have. Thank you so much for coming.” Everyone claps, I shriek, she smiles…and exits. And then it was over. As I stepped outside in a Britney-crazed daze and hobbled down the NYPL’s legendary steps, the sky was gray and it was beginning to rain. I felt drunk, but I was sober. What now? What is life? I pulled a piece of chocolate from the event out of my pocket, unwrapped the Intimate Britney Spears wrapping, and ate it. It was very sweet.