Talk about the American Dream. In the event that you've been living under a big fat rock, 23-year-old Arkansas cutie Kris Allen (think: Justin Timberlake meets John Mayer) won season 8 of American Idol last night.
And it seems that Kris was just as shocked as the rest of us were.
Yes, his rival, the eyeliner-sporting and sultry Adam Lambert probably deserved to win. And, yes, this probably says something about our nation's tolerance for the grey tones of sexual ambiguity. And guyliner. Oh well.
Anyway, even for the quasi-fans among us, it was genuinely exciting to watch a dream come true. This skinny college student, this seemingly nice kid, this newlywed, is all of a sudden on top. You'd think I could just say good for him and get on with the rest of my busy life. But no. I turned off the TV and as I was brushing my teeth, I realized I was worried about something. About someone, actually. A girl I've never met. Katy O'Connell Allen. Kris's wife of less than one year.
I found myself worrying about what was going on behind this girl's pretty TV smile. Sure, they will have money and material things, but in my pajamas, I worried about whether her husband will change. Or already has. I worried about whether he will move on to those proverbial greener pastures. Whether this good guy will let his head swell. Whether his memories of growing up in Conway and playing the viola and ukulele and courting this nice blonde girl will fade into the background as he becomes a national superstar. I hope not. And I know it is silly, but I wish they had a little more time, a few years of marriage, before this fairy tale ending.
How's that for insecurity? I'm not only losing sleep over my own decisions and dreams, but those of perfect strangers.
Congrats, Kris! Hang on, Katy!