Band Geekery

From the time I was in fifth grade until the time I graduated high school, I played the clarinet. I had wanted to play the flute originally because that's what all sensible and cute 10-year-old girls wanted to play, but there was an overflow of cuteness, so I got demoted to clarinet. Whatever, I had the foresight enough to see the jokes that would forever plague flute players after the debut of American Pie. I digress.

Many, many fond memories, and even more memorable friendships stemmed from my tenure in band. Fifth grade was the first year band was offered as an elective. Most kids stuck with it at least their first year into middle school, some even into their seventh grade year. I committed my seventh and eighth grade years to band because, duh, the annual Concert in the Parks festival was held at Disneyland and who the heck was I to miss that?! Then freshman year came rolling around, and I decided that I was now too cool for band. Especially since "band" in high school meant having the word "marching" sewn to it. Hell to the no, Cool Jen thought. But then I found myself missing it and missing all the people I knew from middle school because their schedules were all filled with cool stuff like trips to Canada and New York and San Diego. You're not so cool now, Jen, are ya?

So sophomore year comes rolling around. I jump at the chance to join. I was one of about 20 clarinet players, and 100 other band members. Talk about intimidating. I quickly knew what Dorothy meant in the Wizard of Oz when she muttered to ToTo, "I don't think we're in Kansas anymore". What a far cry high school marching band was to the days of middle school concert band. In middle school, all we were held accountable for was preparing for "playing tests", held once a quarter, required to show the teacher that we were capable of having a single sheet of music well-enough practiced to perform in front of the class. Oh yeah, and to show up to concerts twice a year. Up the intensity about twenty-fold and throw in a bunch of other uncoordinated teenagers marching around the field, honking their instruments and that's what high school marching band was like.

To be fair, that's not entirely true. Sure, band camp started in the beginning of August, when the remainder of the population of the school was relishing in the fact that they still had nothing to do with school for another three weeks almost. We had to have memorized four pieces of music by the time band camp started so that we could concentrate on learning drill (our respective points on the field which changed literally 15 times in the course of each 3 minute song). There were times where our instructors (music and drill and our primary teacher alike) were so frustrated with us, I'd be surprised to know if they didn't want to throw their shoes at our heads. Or where we wanted to quit on the spot. But just like anything, there were tons of memorable moments that made all of the hard stuff worth it.

There was something about the competitions that got everyone amped up. You could almost taste the excitement in the air as we changed into our awesome purple and gold sequenced uniforms. Or was that the Aqua-Net that the band moms shellacked the girls' hair with? I'll never know. But getting ready to march onto that field, after all of the work we put into our music and our marching technique, was something to savor.

I remember the last show of my senior year like it was yesterday. Our band director (Mr. Grantham) was phenomenal. We had gone through four directors in the four years I was in high school, but Mr. G really was fantastic. He was young, hip and funny and we all loved him. Most importantly, we respected him. We were in San Diego for championships, and Mr. G pulled aside all the seniors the night before the show. He wanted to tell us how much we meant to him as the first class to graduate in his first year at Amador, and we all echoed his sentiments. He pulled us together, and helped us set an example for the underclassmen. We all had him to thank.

As we took the field, my stomach was in knots. I thought I was going to be sick or cry. Or maybe both. The stands were packed with family members of students from every school in attendance, all donning their band kids' school colors. I don't remember much about the show itself, other than the transition coming into the very last drill movement. In 16 quick counts, we had to march and play our music across approximately 20 yards of field, and end in a perfect arch, right on the home-side sideline. When we got there, we had this move where we had to raise our instruments up to the announcer's box and hold for four counts or something. This is not a move very accurately executed. And when it was well and accurately executed, it certainly was not often. But guess what? That night we nailed it. All I remember is the look on Mr. G's face as he leapt out of his seat, absolutely beaming with pride for us kids. Tears rose to blur my vision, and a smile so consumed my face that my ability to play my clarinet was completely withdrawn. And he wasn't the only one. Kids from other schools' bands were on their feet cheering for us too, having attended competitions at various stages in the marching season and also having seen the progress we'd made. Our parents were on their feet. Instructors. It was a flipping proud moment.

All this to say that I heard my band practicing tonight. It made me proud to continue to admit that I am a band geek. In about ten-seconds' time, seven years of wonderful (yet proudly geeked-out) band kid memories came back to me. I just hope I served these memories well. They really are worth their weight in sequined purple and gold.

Emotional Stretchy Pants

The tone of this blog is going to be drastically different, and I'm scared to be this public about the change. It's easy to publicly announce positivity, right, because it's nice to report nice, good and happy things. But life isn't always nice, good or happy. There are going to be times of sadness, hurt and frustration. And this is sort of what this blog is going to be about.

I'm not going to apologize for how I feel. I was going to - I literally had "I am sorry for the change of pace" typed. Then I felt like an idiot for offering up such condolences. Wasn't I the one a couple blogs ago saying how great it is that we have an entire section of our brains dedicated to processing emotion? Know it. Feel it. Appreciate it. Alright, so I'm not sorry for being sad or showing it by crying. There, it's out there in the universe. 

I watched a chick flick and it made me sad. The interactions between the guy and girl characters very much reminded me of how my Swiss and I are together. The looks, touches, kisses, hand-holding, the playful verbal teasing. Everything. It made very real the fact that on a day-to-day basis, we don't get that. It's safe to say that I was wildly jealous (yes, of the freaking movie couple), which sent me into a lovely spiral of missing my man. And not just a twinge of the "I miss him" blues, but we are talking full-blown pouty lip and inward brooding. Not cute. And let's get this straight, people. This is not the first time that I've watched a chick flick since he's been gone. It's my favorite movie genre. I love sappy love-confessions. Normally, I can handle all of this. Normally, being the operative.

The movie ended happily (the assholes). I went to my room, still sulking and pouting. Talking to my friend Anna, I could not quite pinpoint the reason I was having such difficulty keeping it together, besides writing it off as me just missing Swiss. I told Anna that I felt like breaking down and crying, but that I didn't want to. Note: I absolutely hate, abhor, detest (etc, etc) crying. It makes me feel weak. People, this is not to be mistaken for me generally saying that crying makes you weak. It makes me, as an individual, feel weak. For the most part, I don't do it unless I have to. Perplexed, I wondered why I felt so strongly against letting my guard down and just allowing myself to cry. 

Allowing myself to cry is like admitting to myself that he really is gone. Have I really allowed myself to feel his absence?

I mean, yes, it's clearly obvious that he isn't physically here. I realize this. I was with his mom and sister the day we took he and his brother to the airport in January. Then I said goodbye to him again in February after my surprise visit out to Virginia to see him. There is evidence abound to show that he is far away, besides the obvious fact that I just plain don't see him everyday. I hope it's not just me being crazy, but many a time in my life has there been an occasion where in my head I know something, but my heart isn't on the same page. 

My heart realized tonight that its other half is across the Atlantic Ocean, and that made me cry. Hard. It made me feel impossibly alone. I felt insanely weak, and even admitting that to the universe makes me cringe. I want to feel nothing but happiness and productivity and pride for myself being able to get through the time apart. Crying to me, I realized, was something of an admission. If I cried, I would admit to myself that he really is gone, that I really am alone and vulnerable. Press the fast forward button if you like, and you'll find me still shedding tears. It continued for a while, I'm going to be honest. It really, deeply hurts missing someone you love. It's honestly as simple as that; what else is there to say about it? 

I think I need to start following my own advice. If I'm sad, I need to buck up and just feel it. So what if I am sad? He's gone. Cry, then let the sadness pass and move on. Tears are not scary. What's scary is the fact that in the last eight months we have been apart, these feelings have been suppressed and untapped. 

And also, this just popped into my head: a million times I have seen the quote "Treat yourself as well as you would your best friends". Do I do that? Hell no. I am far more understanding, empathetic and patient listening to their black clouds than I am my own. Now is the time that I learn how to treat myself like my own best friend. I need to put on my emotional stretchy pants and get ready for things other than happy, sunny and pretty. 

Worrisome Woman?

I just got off the phone with the director of the esthetician school I'm going to be attending. We were talking about financial aid options and all of that grown-up nonsense, and it looks like I will be able to take out a Stafford Loan for $6,300. That is fantastic, but that leaves a balance of $1,100. Aw, shit.

How am I going to come up with that kind of money? Also, they determine your need for federal grants by looking at last year's income. Too bad I made way more money last year than ever before. This means that I do not qualify at all for federal aid of any kind.

I have my heart set on esthetician school. Skin care is my gig. Well, really, it's my dream. Growing up, I never had any sort of relationship with makeup or skincare unless my face was an absolute teenage disaster (which was often). If my face was set on wreaking havoc on my overly-sensitive ego, I'd wash my face with Irish Spring until it squeaked, or used copious amounts of my mom's liquid foundation to try and hide said disaster. But really, it was a complete "accident" that I got into the beauty industry in the first place. I was 21, living in San Diego and desperately looking for a job. Near my apartment, there was a newly-opened beauty boutique that had a "Now Hiring" sign out front. I went inside and asked if the position(s) had been filled. Fast forward to a couple weeks later. I interviewed, and a week after that, I was offered a part-time position selling and educating customers on everything beauty. I was terrified. But I'm a quick learner, and I did really well. I found myself taking home literature on everything I could get my hands on, especially skincare. Also, there was an esthetician who offered facial and waxing services at the boutique. I would pick her brain about ingredients and products, makeup application technique, all that. I was fascinated. Totally and completely hooked. It's been three years, and even though it is a hard industry to stomach sometimes (the bureaucracy, most specifically), it is totally rewarding.

I was promoted quickly to assistant manager of the store. It was a great experience, but being family owned, it didn't pay much. I think I got a quarter for my promotion. Anyway, one of the girls I had worked with at the  boutique had worked for Nordstrom and loved it, so she suggested I find out if I might find work there too. I applied, interviewed and got the job. I was there for a year and a half before moving back home. I absolutely LOVED the counter I was assigned to. I worked with medical grade skin care, learned to operate this machine that takes pictures of the lower levels of your skin to detect sun damage. I got to meet so many different people, some from the industry, some clients. But this job gave me the opportunity to listen to customer's concerns (skin and otherwise), and help them fix whatever they needed help with fixing. I worked with many, many talented makeup artists, and learned tons about color.

My passion for skincare and the cosmetics industry is unyielding. I am certain this is what I want to do with my life, professionally. I'm just nervous that something like not being able to afford tuition is going to get in my way. But I can't let worry stop me from my dream, can I? Worrying does nothing except for instill fear into your brain. I don't really want that to happen, I just want to start doing facials and waxing cooches and eyebrows.

I found something to bring me down from my worry cloud, however. Every morning, I get a daily quote emailed to me. This one was delivered to my inbox a couple months ago, and I thought it applicable to my life enough to save it. It just so happens that it popped into my head after I got off the phone with the school's director.

"Worry is a spiritual short sight. Its cure is intelligent faith."

Having "intelligent faith" isn't about believing or following any certain deity or religion. It's about having the knowledge and faith enough in life, love and yourself to know that if it's supposed to, things will work out. If you do your part to achieve your dreams, there is no use to worry about what tomorrow might bring. That's out of your control. Live up to the potential you were given, and the rest, leave up to fate. Or destiny. Or God. Or whatever. I don't find it easy at all, this having faith thing. But I know that it does take practice, so practice I shall.

I'm sitting in the most comfortable russet-colored leather chair. The television is turned on, but at an inaudible volume. I couldn't even tell you what is on. It is so quiet, the only sounds I hear is the clock on the wall ticking, my fingers fluttering over the keyboard, and the occasional house noise. I'm aware of my comfortable, relaxed breathing. And each time I inhale, I am reminded that there is a fresh mug of spiced orange tea sitting within arm's reach. When I take a sip, I can feel the warmth of the tea-heated ceramic on my lips. I'm unfamiliar with this type of solitude, but I welcome it. 

This is a place where I'm practicing the art of painful honesty, right? So hear this: my whole life, I have actually been pretty afraid of being alone. Up until very recently, I've considered my craving constant company just part of my personality. And it can be healthy in moderation. It is one thing to enjoy the presence of people while you're out, but another thing entirely to be sad and upset and lonely when there is an absence of such company. I love to people watch. To absorb energies of others. To observe body language. I realize now, this was something of an escape, an activity where I do not have to think about anything if I don't want to. Somewhere I can put on a happy face and be independent of stressors. But since my new-found affinity for my hippy-drippy reading material, I am beginning to learn to appreciate this noisy type of quiet.

After years of developing and perfecting my people-watching skills, my self-watching skills have very much started to resemble a prune. I never took the time to notice my breathing before. Or the way my second toe crosses over onto my big toe when I set cross-legged. How hot tea feels as its making its way down my esophagus.

What a perfect time to get to know myself on this level though. I'm away from the person I love more desperately than I ever knew I was capable, which is hard, yes. It makes me feel weaker than I ever care to admit publicly, but it gives me time, as a 24 year-old-woman to get to know myself as an individual. I want to bring to the table as much vibrancy, love, and je ne sais quois to the lives of the people that matter to me as I can. But how am I to bring any of that if I don't know what that looks like in me? It's time figure the answer to that question out. It's going to take time, patience and a whole lot of willingness to get to know myself. 

Bottom line: I'm excited to get to know me. I hardcore dislike being without my other half..but really, I'm gaining another other half. And that other half is pretty important.