Friday night was incredible...even with the other 15,000 screaming fans there.

Seeing the Police was a celebration of sorts for me. The ticket purchase, at a price I never dreamed possible, was something I took so long in deciding upon that I totally missed out on the July show dates. And when the third show in November was scheduled, I still found myself hemming and hawing.

Then I spent a rainy Sunday afternoon listening to all five of their albums -- on my turntable -- and knew I had to see them one last time. One of my awesome contesting buddies alerted me to the pre-sale for the fourth-and-final November 9th show and I went for it.

If I had known then that the two gentlemen in front of me, who were in the first row of our section, would spend the entire evening STANDING UP, I might have gone for the more cost-effective nosebleed seats. Believe me, I was sorely tempted to whack them in the back of the head with my heavily-armed handbag, but the DH traded seats so I could see the large screens overhead and the back of the drunken girls who were blocking that particular view.

Perhaps it was better that Sting and I couldn't see each other. After all, many years have passed since we first fell in lurve. The 8" x 10" photo in my high school locker let the world know that we were in it for the long haul.

Heck, I even read the Ghost in the Machine by Arthur Koestler so that I could try to figure out what subliminal messages Sting was sending me on their fourth album. Yeah, I had it bad. And no, I didn't understand any of that mankind's-eventual-course-toward-self-destruction stuff.

Friday night at the stadium, dancing in my seat (a skill I mastered during my late teens so as not to upset patrons seated behind me when I'd crimp my hair), I transported back in time more years than I care to admit to a time when everything was so simple, yet complicated at the same time. The lyrics rolled off my tongue and I anticipated Steward Copeland's every beat and tried not to shudder when a spidery Andy Summers' riff sent shivers down my spine.

I was home; my inner 16-year-old and I were reunited once again. For two incredible hours Sting let me know that nothing had changed: we'd still be together 4ever, just like I had scrawled on my math text book.

And now I have the program and t-shirt to prove it. ;)