Jon never thought he’d find himself at a Billie Eilish concert. Not because he didn’t like the music. He definitely liked the music. But because, well… it didn’t exactly scream masculine energy. And Jon, with his sturdy frame and brooding demeanor (as he liked to think of it), felt like he should be in a dimly lit whiskey bar discussing stock trends, not standing in a sea of neon-haired teenagers and crop-top hipsters. But here he was.
He stood all the way at the back of the packed Melbourne arena, arms crossed, head nodding ever so slightly, just enough to not look weird but not too much to betray his secret enjoyment. And that’s when he saw them, the construction boys.
There were four of them, stationed near a locked exit, decked out in high-vis vests and steel-toe boots. These guys weren’t just watching the concert. No, they were judging the concert. Smirking, sipping their beers, and rolling their eyes at the screaming fans. They exuded that effortless we’re too cool for this energy, the kind that made Jon self-conscious.
The problem? They were right in his line of sight. Jon wasn’t worried about the thousands of teenage girls belting Billie’s lyrics with reckless abandon. He wasn’t worried about the middle-aged dads running around with their kids. He was worried about these guys. What if they saw him? What if they knew he was enjoying this?
Jon stiffened. He couldn’t let that happen. He had a reputation to uphold (among who, exactly? He wasn’t sure, but it still felt important). So, he deployed the alpha male Survival Tactics: Arms crossed, Slight frown of disapproval, The occasional slow, indifferent head nod.
And then, Billie took the stage.
The arena erupted. The screams hit an ear shattering decibel. The bass reverberated through his chest. And Jon? Jon felt something stir inside him. Excitement. A rush of adrenaline. He stole a quick glance at the construction boys. Still unimpressed, still smirking. One of them made eye contact. Jon panicked. Look away. Act casual. Don’t let them know.
But the music… the music was so good.
For a solid five minutes, Jon was trapped in the Masculinity Crisis. A part of him wanted to lean into the experience, to sing along, to let loose. But the other part, the part deeply ingrained in “real men don’t listen to this” nonsense, fought back. And then, something clicked.
“Fuck it,” Jon muttered to himself.
Why was he pretending? Why was he caring about a group of random construction workers? He was here with his best mate Peter. He was here to have fun. His arms dropped. His posture relaxed. His head started nodding on purpose. And just like that, Jon had crossed over from reluctant attendee to fully-fledged fan.
A grin spread across his face as he turned to find Peter. This was a night for the books. He wasn’t going to waste another second caring about some too cool for this tradies.