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Did you wake up this morning feeling flushed? Is your skin tingling all over? Are you breaking out in hives? Don’t be alarmed: You just have a bad case of Beyoncé Fever. (Or Zika. The symptoms are eerily similar.) Queen Bey will get Chicago in formation at Soldier Field this weekend, and there are but a scant three days left to make final preparations. Luckily, we’ve got you covered with a comprehensive countdown checklist.
Swarm, Beyhive! Swarm!
72 hours until showtime: Begin your 3-day all-lemonade cleanse. Add a dash of hot sauce from your bag to add that extra touch of swag to your many panicked dashes to the (single) ladies’ room.
71 hours until showtime: Like all of life’s biggest milestones, you prepare for a Beyoncé concert from the inside out. Start by getting your mind right by playing “Crazy in Love” at top volume. Set the song to repeat on a loop. Throw away your remote. Welcome to the first day of the rest of your life.
68 hours until showtime: Released on your own recognizance by the CPD after promising to show up for your noise violation court date (provided it is not the day of the concert, duh), your light scrape with the American legal system gifts you with a fuller understanding of the lyric, “Slay trick, or you get eliminated.”
60 hours until showtime: Open up your list of contacts and take social inventory of everyone you know named Becky (or any variation) who possesses above average hair. Permanently end your friendships, just to err on the side of caution. “Sorry, Rebekah. I know we’ve been friends since Daisy Scouts. Beys before Hos.”
54 hours until showtime: Time to shop up. All the good leopard-print leotards will be totally picked over by show day. Sure, the obvious choice is Ivy Park, but it’s a little tacky to wear the rhinestone-studded thong of the band you’re going to see? Don’t even think about wearing anything but a head-to-toe new outfit; even in the furthest reaches of Section 432, SHE CAN SENSE YOUR PRESENCE. Queen Bey sees all.
49 hours until showtime: Gently break it to your Sasha Fierce-inspired alter ego that, per Ticketmaster policy, all entities real and imagined require a separate paid ticket, so she will not be able to attend this time,
48 hours until showtime: Swing by Jo-Ann Fabrics for a back-up BeDazzler.
40 hours until showtime: At your favorite brunch spot, publicly question your significant other’s loyalty in order to walk a mile in Mrs. Carter’s five-inch platform Manolos. Bonus points if you can execute this outburst as spoke-sung club banger.
31 hours until showtime: Staunch your periodic excitement nosebleeds with old Rachel Roy scarves. Mix the drippings with glitter.
28 hours until showtime: Subscribe to Tidal so you can look her in the eye on the off chance you run into Beyoncé in the Soldier Field restroom and she asks, “So, how are you feeling your Tidal subscription?” On second thought, never look her directly in the eyes. That’s in her tour rider.
21 hours until showtime: Get written up at work for bellowing “SURFBOARD” at everyone you pass in the hallway.
10 hours until showtime: Who run the world? GIRLS. But who run the drive-thru today? Your co-worker Gerald. Because you got him to fill in for your day shift. You aren’t trying to show up at a Beyoncé show smelling like the meat sweats!
8 hours until showtime: Hit up Red Lobster to carbo load for energy. On the comment card, complain that Cheddar Bey Biscuits are misspelled on the menu.
6 hours until showtime: Head on down to the stadium to ensure you aren’t stuck in pre-concert traffic. Find your seat in Row MMM. Commence pre-concert scream barfs so you can get into a nice rhythm by showtime. Don’t forget to hydrate; your electrolytes are almost “Irreplaceable!”
1 hour until showtime: Fashion a modified sweat lodge for yourself at your seat using only posterboard and pleather motorcycle jackets. Enter and be cleansed of all non-Beyoncé impurities. There is no time; there is no place. There is only seat 17 and your rebirth into the Beyhive.
3 hours after showtime: You regain consciousness in the fetal position under your folded seat covered in a thin layer of popcorn kernels and errant press-on nails. You hear an angelic voice call out, “Thank you, Chicago! Goodnight!” You will your eyes to focus and see a blurry Halo of perfection float off stage right. She takes off in her private jet for Cleveland before you fully regain your bearings.
It was all worth it.
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Brooke Preston (@bigu) is a comedy writer and storyteller. Visit brookeprestoncomedy.com.
