I think I started freaking out on Friday after thanksgiving. I had to be ready for Monday. The mister and the kids had the day off on Monday, and since the Mr. and the Boy were going to be my accompaniment, I had to do it on Monday. So we started with just getting the music together and figuring out how long a minute was. Then I began to figure out some "moves." ha. Well, the mr. got frustrated with me quickly because I kept making them restart when finally he said, "Why dont we make a tape of it, and you can practice to that, then we'll put it together."
"Good idea, where's the tape player?"
"Yeah, good idea, except the recorder is broken," he lamented.
"Well, then, why did you make such a suggestion?" I asked incredulously.
"Well, cause it would have been a good idea," he retorted.
"What about the kid's tape recorder? You know, the playschool one? That would work."
The boy chimed in, "But it doesnt have batteries."
"I think I saw some C batteries lying around somewhere," I commented.
The great "battery" search commenced for a good fifteen minutes or perhaps less. Either way, it felt like an eternity. I was anxious and just wanted to get this over with. It was now Saturday. We lost Friday, and I can't remember why. I only had Saturday and Sunday to practice. The Boy rummaged up the antiquated tape recorder with a built in microphone that was designed with the intent of driving parents insane. Just push the button and it will squawk and squeal and make horrendous noises. Push the button and talk into it, and the small already shrill voice of a preschooler can be amplified to megaphone proportions. This was definitely not the toy I wanted to be putting batteries into, but it could record my "musicians" accompaniment, and I was willing to do anything. We've had the toy since the Boy was three, and were living through the third obsession over the microphoned torture machine, er I mean, tape recorder. As the Peanut, so nicknamed because she's a three year old who is dwarfed by two year olds, saw us putting batteries into thing she cried with delight, "Oh boy! Now I can SING again!!!" The mr and I looked at each other and said in a very flat voice "yay."
The poor machine had lived through two older children. I have to give Playskool some high kudos. It has survived some rough times. But it was definitely showing its age as we attempted to record high quality entertainment on it. It would often get stuck, wouldnt rewind when we needed a do-over, and crackled horrifically on playback. The torture machine did serve its purpose, and I did manage to get my practice tape.
I began to lay out my steps, and quickly realized I didnt have the memorization skills needed to retain one minute of dance moves. Well, I knew that beforehand, but somehow thought magically this obstacle would be overcome for this one moment in time. Grabbing a notebook piece of paper, I scrawled my steps, using the wrong terms, I'm sure, and in some cases, doodling a little stick figure. I even wrote down the count next to the steps and calculated how many measures.
Then I practiced, and practiced, and practiced some more.Monday arrived, and I felt as if I was going to hurl. The knot in my stomach was huge. I fretted and worried that the mr. wouldnt be able to find a parking spot, let alone, the run down old gym where my class took place. But that was the least of my concerns.
Around eleven-thirty, I met him and the kids in the front of the gym. I went through the locker rooms to change and began to shake from my nerves. Noon couldnt come fast enough. I was glad to see I wasnt the only one shaking in my boots.
Finally, the performances started, and I was second up. The bleachers were filled with outsiders, and my fellow students were sitting on the gym floor. I walked out to the middle of the gym which now seemed the size of a football field. I felt like a very very naked tiny field mouse. The mr. nodded to me, and I nodded back. The music started. The mr. played the intro on his didjeridoo, and then the Boy came in on his djembe. I began to move, as if I was in a dream, a tremendously bad dream. Suddenly my brain stopped. I couldnt remember the next step. I couldn't breathe. Was the room spinning? I panicked.
"Do you need a do-over?" my prof asked.
I nodded.
"Do you need to go out in the foyer and run through it?"
I nodded again. I couldnt even speak. My cheeks were on fire from embarrassment. My heart was pounding so hard I thought I was going to die. I ran into the foyer and almost lost it right there. I couldnt remember what came next! My mind was a total blank!
Suddenly I remembered I had written everything down and stuck that paper in my purse. So, I ran as fast as I could down the steps into the locker room and rummaged through my purse. CRAP! I thought, it's not here! It's not here! Danggit! I must have taken it out and left it at home!!! I was in full panick mode now. Any semblance of being calm and rational had left my entire being. I quickly threw my purse back into my locker, ran back upstairs for fear of someone discovering my disappearance, and talked myself back into being calm. Take a deeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep breath...com'mon, just make something up...please God I need help, I canNOT remember what comes next! I was almost in tears. I knew I only got one do-over, and pretty much this and my paper were my only way of getting a grade. It was a total freak-out.
Suddenly the steps came to mind, and I started breathing again. I walked through my routine a few times, then walked back out into the gym. They were already up to the fourth person. Crap! does this mean I have to wait until the end to do it? I'm so totally gonna forget again! I fretted. Number five was called, and she looked at me with sympathy, and said to the prof "Are you gonna let her go again?"
The prof turned to me and asked, "Are you ready now?"
I sucked in a deep breath and said, "Yeah" and determined no matter what, if I had to make up stuff in the middle due to another brain block, I would do that.
I walked out front again. The music started again. I began my routine...again. But this time, when it really mattered, I made it all the way through. I rushed through some parts, had to slow other parts down, but it didnt matter. I didnt care. I made it to the end! I walked back to where I was sitting, and she showed me my grade: an A minus! Most everyone received an A, and there were a couple of B pluses. I was very happy with my A minus. Very very happy. Coming down from the adrenalin rush was the hardest. I totally crashed later that afternoon and slept for over an hour.
Later at work, I was putting my paycheck into my purse, when this little corner of notebook paper peeked out, mockingly, as if to say, "Nyah Nyah! I was here the WHOOOOOOOOLE time! Muhahahahahahaaaaaaaaahahhahahaaa!" So what, I thought, I made it through an entire semester of dance anyway, with a well earned A minus.
