Last night I was at choir rehearsal and we were working on a particularly difficult piece of music.
For Melissa, Lori, Elisa and Loralee it was the Mathias “Let the People Praise Thee, O God”, the piece that he wrote for Prince Charles and Lady Diana’s wedding.
For everybody else it sounds like this.
I’m a first alto and the the alto line looks like this
and this
If you are a vocalist you are cringing. If you are an instrumentalist you are wondering what my deal is. If you can’t read music you stopped reading this post five minutes ago.
Before we moved on to the next piece the director asked if we had any questions.
I turned to the lady on my right. I said “Yeah, can we sing something else?”
No response.
I turned to the girl on my left and I said “Yeah, I have a question. What the hell Mathias?”
A couple of weeks ago I only had two pairs of white underpants.
I had a pair of white thong underpants and a giant pair of white granny panties.
I know this for sure because I need to wear white underwear under my dobok.
Remember how I told you I signed up for Tae Kwon Do? A dobok is a Tae Kwon Do uniform.
I found myself in a predicament. I could either start doing a lot more laundry or I could go out and buy some more white underwear.
Obviously I went to the store.
I didn’t have a lot of time so I went to Target. Plus, this didn’t have to be awesome underwear. I was going to wear it to kick people. I found a pack that was three pairs (pair?) of of white thong panties for $11. Perfect for wearing under white pants. Right?
Now, I don’t really want to get into this here. I have an entire blog dedicated to my weight issues, but I do need to tell you that I wasn’t sure if I needed to buy large or XL underpants. These looked pretty roomy so I went with the large.
Later that Day…
I went to my second Tae Kwon Do class feeling nervous. In my first class I fully expected to look like an idiot and I had made my peace with it. This was my second class and the masters would probably presume I sort of knew what was going on at this point.
But things got sort of strange. There was a family there that seemed to be training to be masters or something.
Our regular two teachers were there but there was also a family of four: a mom, a dad, and two sons who looked to be about nine and eleven who seemed to be running the class. And they all had special blue tunics.
We did the stretching and the warm ups and thing where you count and do your little poses (give me time, I’m sure I will learn what these things are called) and then we got into two lines and the family in the blue tunics pulled out some mini trampolines.
The idea was that we ran up to the trampoline, jumped, did our kick and then ran back into the line.
This is great exercise. It is good cardio and an excellent way to practice kicks and body control.
It is also kind of fun, but only if you wore the right underpants.
In my case large was too large.
As soon as I started running my underpants started falling down.
A lot.
The kind of falling down where if I had been wearing a skirt my underpants would have been around my ankles.
But I was wearing pants so the crotch of my underpants were where it was supposed to be and the sides were down around my outer thighs.
If it had just been me and the other 11 five and six year olds in my class I would have just reached into my pants and hiked up my underwear, but one side of the studio is mirrors and one side is entirely parents.
And I know most of the parents.
I am in a predicament. I am supposed to be focused on the task (or the master will never give me a sticker) but my underwear is falling down and that is very distracting.
I am also starting to wonder if the parents can see that my underpants are falling down through my white pants.
I am also seriously glad I didn’t buy the extra larges.
In the end I decided on first actually reaching into the leg of my pants and pulling up my underwear, and later just kicking stuff with my drawers practically down to my knees.
This pair of underwear was freakishly stretchy.
And when I got home I threw the underpants in the trash can.
You know, writing this I realize that even though this happened to me two weeks ago I still haven’t solved my problem. In fact, I have actually just been doing more laundry like some kind of sucker. I guess I’ll be going back to the store to look for more white underpants.
And this time I will strongly consider purchasing the mediums.
Twice this week people have told me how young I look.
First was my new stylist. She asked me if I was in school.
I looked at her like she had ten heads and I am pretty sure I said :No, I am a grown-up, but thank you for saying that.”
Then today the guy that was trying to sell me a new garbage service wanted to talk to my Mom. (Which he totally could have done if he was here last week, but I am still in charge of the major garbage decisions at my house. She can’t stop me even when she is visiting.)
I was feeling pretty youthful.
I was trying to figure out what is working in my favor this week? Did I lose weight? Is it my new haircut? Is it not wearing any makeup? Is it wearing dirty jeans and a ratty old sweatshirt from college?
Suddenly I understood.
I don’t look younger.
I am wearing a college sweatshirt.
See?
I’ve been wearing it for two days.
And shut up, like YOU change clothes every day!
Oh, you do?
Well goody for you.
And I don’t look any younger. People are just literate and when they read “University of Central Florida” they think I am in college.
The key to maybe not looking young, but at least getting asked if you are young is to wear a sweatshirt with a college on it.
Note: I also has a sweatshirt that bears the name and logo of the preschool the kids went to on it. No one ever asks me about that one. Apparently I cannot pass for four, but possibly 22. I am okay with that.
The other day at the bus stop one of my new neighbors was asking all the other ladies about where we got our hair cut.
I didn’t say anything until she asked me directly.
Because I get my hair cut in Tampa.
Which wouldn’t really be that weird except I live just outside Washington D.C.
That is when it occurred to me that I might be a little strange. It didn’t seem like a big deal when I was going to visit my parents every couple of months. I would just make an appointment to get my haircut whenever I was home. The problem now is that I haven’t been to Florida since June and I don’t have any immediate plans to go there.
And I really need a haircut.
And I am terrified to get a new stylist.
I have no idea what my problem is. It isn’t as if I have a complicated style. I have a bob. I don’t even have bangs or anything. Really, all you need to be able to is cut in a straight line and not piss me off.
This has happened to me before. I lived in Orlando for three years and I drove to Ft. Lauderdale every 8 weeks to get my bangs trimmed. It is as if I have some weird Stockholm Syndrome type attachment to my stylists.
You know how they say that once your baby is finally born a lot of women develop a strange attachment towards their OB/GYN? It is sort of like that.
(I miss you Laura!)
Well, it is clear that I have issues, but I am going to have to do something about it. I am starting to look like some sort of dirty hippie and since I am in no position to fly Laura up here just to cut my hair I am going to have to find someone local.
Who has a stylist that they love in the Washington D.C. Metropolitan area?
