"Hey Nicole, I just parked, and I'm pretty sure I'm here because I'm hearing the worst karaoke of the twenty-first century. Anyways, I'm going to wander around until I find ya. See you in a bit."
I look around for Nicole and only see the following: about three square acres of a few thousand knobbly-legged, neon v-neck sporting, faux Ray Ban-rocking, Blackberry-toting, high school-attending fans of Forever the Sickest Kids, a pop-punk band out of somewhere in California.
Even though I'm a solid half a head taller than most of them, Nicole is hard to spot.
I don't see a karaoke machine; I was hearing one of the opening bands.
I simultaneously cringe, reprimand myself for being an asshole, and call down curses on the head of the undernourished fourteen-year-old female who is butchering my favorite Tom Petty song.
I take a few minutes to circle the festival and try to find Nicole. The lines for free airbrush tattoos, the rock climbing wall, and cheap pizza provide no answers. With each passing minute, I feel less like a celebrant of youth and more like a child molester. Yes, I'm that one lone college-age female who slowly scans the crowd while wandering around with no discernible purpose.
I finally find Nicole. She's as close to the main stage as she could get, watching the kids in her youth group she brought and the same band of fourteen-year-olds that just a few minutes ago made me want to commit hari-kari.
I've come to Youth Fest 2009 for this: to help her get the seven kids she brought back to Purcellville without breaking too many laws.
That's not true. I've come to Youth Fest 2009 to see the free concert of a band Nicole likes a lot. I respect her music taste and I respect free entertainment. The fact that I'll be carting a few middle schoolers back to Round Hill Baptist Church just makes me feel like less of a creeper.
"You're coming without kids and leaving with some," Nicole points out. "You're still a creeper."
We settle into our places and Nicole reminds me and the kids of what I already know: "Keep your feet planted. Don't let anyone push you out of your space."
My height is already bothering the blue-eyed thirteen-year-old behind me, who says loudly, "I can't see anything! I can't even see my boyfriend!"
I ignore the initial rush of guilt, reminding myself that short kids must pay their dues until they grow tall enough to actually see what's going on at concerts. I went through that phase, too--the music festival where I got stuck behind Afro Man, the Switchfoot show where I couldn't see anything without jumping. . .my memories are interrupted by a skinny boy with stringy black hair who loudly announces, "I am so adding them on Myspace!"
And for the first time in my life, I feel like a crotchety old man, annoyed with kids these days and their newfangled technology.
When FTSK comes on stage, about two thousand adolescent females start to scream directly in my ear. I sigh, chagrined, and kiss goodbye three years of healthy hearing.
The band performs a high-energy set, featuring catchy pop-punk songs and nauseatingly scripted banter, including linguistic gems like, "You guys are so cool it's giving me a headache, and I think I like that!"
I spend the next thirty minutes of my life thinking about the following things:
-The rhythm guitarist managed to get camel toe, a phenomenon I had never before seen on a man.
-Dedicating a song to everyone who owns a cell phone might be meaningful if you're playing a show in Nairobi. But here, you might as well dedicate it to everyone who eats chicken breast.
-If this is Woodstock Jr., why is it run by the Man (the Loudoun County Youth Initiative, which I'm pretty sure would not have endorsed the shenanigans of the first Woodstock)?
-If I get kicked in the head one more time by That One Crowdsurfing Guy in aviators and a Hollister shirt, I might become violent.
-How many neon shirts do I actually own? If I decide to rework my wardrobe to guarantee I will never, even by accident, fit in at an event like this, how many shirts will I have to give to the thrift store?
-Is the frontman wearing tighty whities?
And then it's done, faster than a middle school romance. I find the three girls that I'm responsible for.
They are elated. Leslie caught a used water bottle one of the band members chucked offstage, and Lindsey got a guitar pick.
"You may have the guitar pick, but my mouth has touched his mouth!"
"Omigod, they're my idols!"
"It was my first concert!"
I casually mention that hardcore fans don't wash the band t-shirts they buy and wear at shows.
"Omigod, I never will."
On the car ride back, I explain to them what the word Indie means and we listen to the Decemberists. They're unimpressed, so we switch to Hellogoodbye.
And in the parking lot of the church, we have a dance party to "Here in These Arms" in the bed of my pick-up truck.
For five minutes, my cynicism melts. Now if only my ears would stop ringing...
Safe no more: local female population fear for its underwear. 
