(no subject)
I really want to move my blog over to blogspot (google's blogging site), because you can make the layout prettier and choose your own domain name. I created an account, but it would probably take me 45 years to move everything over there, and I don't know if I have 45 years to spare.
Saturday night was my five year high school reunion. (I realize it's weird that we even had one of those, but it was fun nonetheless.) To the naked eye, it appeared that nothing really had changed. The pretty girls were still the same pretty girls. The class clown, taller now and with a lower voice, was still cracking jokes and keeping the awkwardness to a minimum. The "rotunda" lacked the hockey players who used to mumble obscenities when you walked by, but I could still feel them there, watching me. The "tour guide" bulletin board was still there, but in the place where my photo used to be was a younger, smiling face. It was a surreal experience to walk through those halls, especially after the past year in which I've aged significantly. I felt strangely the same though, just a little bit taller and put together in my designer dress and heels, and slightly more confident with a glass of wine in my hand. I was still watching my high school crush (now just a little bit more than a crush) out of the corner of my eye as he flirted and laughed and acted just the same as he always has. My stomach flopped and I felt a kind of adolescent nervousness I hadn't experienced in ages. But aside from that one private moment, I realized how well I have done and how proud I should be. Because the pretty girls--they're not as perfect as I once thought they were and the smart kids--they struggle too. I had to dig for a smile and my typical self-loathing humor as I conjured up excuses for why I don't sing anymore: "I sing," I told people. "At weddings and funerals." An old friend noticed the tension, I think, and she replied with, "That's great," and quickly changed the subject. No one needed to know that I stopped singing originally because the rejection hurt too much and then because my life was too confusing and too messed up. They don't need to know that I cry whenever I listen to showtunes or see a Broadway musical and spend hours at work searching for auditions that I'll never attend. They don't need to know that my ex-boyfriend was a better singer than I was and made me feel that because I didn't get my degree in music I would never be as good. They didn't need to know that when he left me, he took a part of the soul that was so deeply connected to music--and that when I sang at my grandmother's funeral I felt guilty for using that time to shine.
I walked through the theater with Current Man on our way to the parking lot. "It looks different," I said. "No, it's the same." In the theater lobby downstairs where I used to practice singing because the acoustics made me sound like Barbara Streisand, I stared at old pictures that were plastered on the walls. There weren't any of me anymore and I smiled sadly and joked out loud: "I was Pingree theater." Current Man laughed and said, "You have a strange kind of confidence." I stumbled behind him in my uncomfortable heels, grabbed his arm and shook my head. If he only really knew.
Saturday night was my five year high school reunion. (I realize it's weird that we even had one of those, but it was fun nonetheless.) To the naked eye, it appeared that nothing really had changed. The pretty girls were still the same pretty girls. The class clown, taller now and with a lower voice, was still cracking jokes and keeping the awkwardness to a minimum. The "rotunda" lacked the hockey players who used to mumble obscenities when you walked by, but I could still feel them there, watching me. The "tour guide" bulletin board was still there, but in the place where my photo used to be was a younger, smiling face. It was a surreal experience to walk through those halls, especially after the past year in which I've aged significantly. I felt strangely the same though, just a little bit taller and put together in my designer dress and heels, and slightly more confident with a glass of wine in my hand. I was still watching my high school crush (now just a little bit more than a crush) out of the corner of my eye as he flirted and laughed and acted just the same as he always has. My stomach flopped and I felt a kind of adolescent nervousness I hadn't experienced in ages. But aside from that one private moment, I realized how well I have done and how proud I should be. Because the pretty girls--they're not as perfect as I once thought they were and the smart kids--they struggle too. I had to dig for a smile and my typical self-loathing humor as I conjured up excuses for why I don't sing anymore: "I sing," I told people. "At weddings and funerals." An old friend noticed the tension, I think, and she replied with, "That's great," and quickly changed the subject. No one needed to know that I stopped singing originally because the rejection hurt too much and then because my life was too confusing and too messed up. They don't need to know that I cry whenever I listen to showtunes or see a Broadway musical and spend hours at work searching for auditions that I'll never attend. They don't need to know that my ex-boyfriend was a better singer than I was and made me feel that because I didn't get my degree in music I would never be as good. They didn't need to know that when he left me, he took a part of the soul that was so deeply connected to music--and that when I sang at my grandmother's funeral I felt guilty for using that time to shine.
I walked through the theater with Current Man on our way to the parking lot. "It looks different," I said. "No, it's the same." In the theater lobby downstairs where I used to practice singing because the acoustics made me sound like Barbara Streisand, I stared at old pictures that were plastered on the walls. There weren't any of me anymore and I smiled sadly and joked out loud: "I was Pingree theater." Current Man laughed and said, "You have a strange kind of confidence." I stumbled behind him in my uncomfortable heels, grabbed his arm and shook my head. If he only really knew.