mortification

I'm probably too tired to type this. I may read it tomorrow and delete it entirely. But I'm here, now, typing, so I might as well continue.
Today my violin solo went alright. Again, my hands weren't shaking, and I was so incredibly thankful. It felt SO nice.

The more entertaining story of the day though...
Our orchestra played. I forgot several mandatory articles of clothing, including black shoes, nylons, and a black shirt. I wore ugly black socks with my brown clunky sandals and asked my dad to bring me the black shirt with a bow on it in my closet. My father is apparently unsure, at age 56 almost 57, of what a bow actually is. He also doesn't seem to understand the fact that stretchy shirts with holes in the chest are meant to be worn OVER other shirts.

So my father brought me the stretchy, hole-riddled shirt (WITHOUT any sort of bow I might add). I had no shirt to wear under it so I safety pinned all the holes shut (very stylish, you know, having messy lines of safety pins showing through your shirt). That worked all right. But I was wearing a sports bra.

I have managed to wear sports bras for the whole year. The reason for that is much more depressing than the entertaining story I am interrupting to tell you this. But last August I went school shopping and bought all new bras. Nice bras, that fit well (I can't believe I'm going on about this in a blog. Oh well- the truth! All of it!). And then I was wearing one of them on that night with Matt in the car, the night that thing happened that threw me into a depression for all those months, and I haven't worn any of the nice new ones since then.

So the straps showed. That's the gist of my depressing tangent. So I had to pull them off and put them under my shoulder. Which meant that there were now odd lumpy things visible under my tight-fitting safety-pin-decorated shirt, kind of like tumors, and also my bra was on the verge of falling off.

As I walked out there to play, obvious as first chair second violin with my clunky sandles and lumpy chest, I thought that this sounded suspiciously like the beginning of one of the articles on the "Say Anything" page in YM magazine, you know the ones that procede to tell tales of mortal embarrassment? That comforting thought led me into my orchestra performance.

Anyway, thankfully I was spared the horror of my bra falling down and safety pins coming undone all at the same moment (that would have been a spectacle for the weary ajudicators!). Although I did get in my daily embarassing moment when I tripped on my clunky sandals (or perhaps, to be less forgiving, just my feet) and fell up the stairs again, crashing into the steps as people stopped to stare, the image of politeness.

It was an okay day. Cello solo tomorrow, ensamble, and then it's over thank gosh. I don't really care about my scores this year. I remember my freshman year when it mattered and after state I cried for hours and punched my face so my nose bled and fought the monster but lost and cut my arm, and I thought that I would always feel the ache of failure.

My gosh I've changed since then.