first day of college

I was just snooping around and ran across a blog I'd started a few years ago. I only added a few entries and most of them are overworked. I was trying too hard to be funny and added way too many adjectives in every sentence. Still, I chuckled when I read my accounts of going back to college at age 48, and auditioning for the music department. I decided to share of few of those entries with you, the reader (meaning me, of course, like who else will ever read this?). Some of them feel like poorly written short stories - Think 'David Sedaris' if he were untalented, not funny in the least, and lived in Sioux Falls.

Here's one: My audition for the music department. I hope you enjoy it, me.

Yesterday, I auditioned for the choral program. Walking from the car to the music building, I was so nervous I was almost apoplectic. I tried to breathe, but could only take in a teaspoon of air at a time. I walked in the doors and was met by a group of twelve year olds, sitting behind a long table. Ok, maybe they were in their twenties. All adorable and sweet. "Can we help you?" I knew them. Innocent enough but lurking behind the sweetness? The choir Mafia! The elite of the college choral world. "Don't cross them or you'll be sorry," I told myself. I filled out my info card (Name of High School? High School choirs? High School music teacher? Parent’s name? High School activities? etc.) then walked into the warm-up room, at the request of the sweet table leader. I couldn’t tell her that I’d already been warming up for eight hours. I figured that my raspy voice might have been the result of allergies, so that was my story and I stuck to it. I made the mistake of taking the advice of a friend who suggested "If your voice is raspy, just swig a little olive oil right before you sing." I brought some along in a tiny Tupperware container and downed it. Ahhh. Mmmm. Smooth. Soothing. BURNING! ACID IN THROAT! BURNING! BURNING! Can’t breath! Wind pipe closing up! I ran to the water fountain and, after a drink, the burning mellowed to dull ache.

My name was then called and I walked into the audition room, red-faced and shaking. I sang my little song, looking over the heads of the auditioneers, as I was coached to do by my voice teacher. Since I was too nervous to get a good breath, I ended up breathing in awkward places - after every word. I'm sure they didn't notice. After I performed, they asked me to sing a few short musical phrases that were played on the piano. The first two were easy enough. The third, a simple whole tone scale, was my waterloo. I don’t know WHAT I sang, but it sounded like the cry of a cow with the handle of a shovel up its ass. I just kept moving up the scale until I reached a note I could no longer sing nor had any confidence in. The result was a sort of vocal convulsion - 'Laaaa...' while sliding off pitch. (Subtext: Oh shit. Now I'm going to be in the bad choir.) "Are you signed up for a half an hour lesson or an hour?", the friendly new head of the vocal department asked kindly. "I think ..uh…only a half an hour". "You might want to change that to an hour." I walked out and thanked the twenty year olds, a few of whom were talking about their dorms with names like Torvalt, Skogmoos, Huundersen, Skrindoswveen and lots of other words with too many vowels right next to each other. It is a Lutheran college, after all.

The day the new member list was posted, we all pressed around the bulletin board in the music department. It reminded me of ‘The posting of the High School Musical cast list’. I tried to act mature and not crowd to the front, but those little kids are just so fun to push over. My name! There on the list, right under Justin Wamblinger’s.
(Did I mention that every male student is named Justin and every girl is named Lauren? All except for one freshman who rides a teeny bike around campus, sports a Mohawk, and wears a button that reads 'Vagina Friendly' on his suspenders.) His name is Dirk and he obviously comes from a strict Christian home.
Anyway, there I was, on the good choir list! My audition death rattle scale didn’t ruin my chance for a fulfilling educational experience, nor ruin my chance to look down my nose at the lesser choir members - the most important function of an advanced choir. I was in. An elite. Whoo hoo!
A little 48 year old person inside my head did a standing backflip, a split leap, then took three Advil.
This next part is a bit upsetting so you can stop reading, if you like. As I walked away from the bulletin board, I heard someone shouting ‘Apples! Apples!’ I turned and saw my music Ed. teacher, strolling down the hallway, holding an aluminum wash tub full of apples. I asked a little girl, who stood next to me, ‘Is this a tradition? The passing of the apples?’ I brushed past Lauren 4056, grabbed a Macintosh and bounced out to my car to begin the 70 minute return trip home.
Once in the car I pondered the experience. Free apples to celebrate the good news and free apples to take the edge off of the bad. Apples were no respecter of persons. You could be in the best choir or the dunderhead version and you still got an apple. It was a magnanimous gesture. Well thought out and just a sweet idea. My only qualm is that I would have used a large oval basket from Pottery Barn, lined in checkered red and white fabric. And, it should go without saying, I would have worn a bonnet.