madermouse's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 10/31/01 - Band We marched onto the field, single file. The grass crunched underfoot - a result of a typical October, Wyoming frost. I shook all over. My flute felt like an ice rod, one that I was being forced to hold onto with blue fingers. My band uniform shifts with each step, and then begins to ride up as I pass the 25 yard line....yet I cannot adjust it. As any movement would cause me to stick out like a sore thumb as we make our way to our starting point on the field. I start to panic. You see, there weren�t any band uniforms big enough to fit me at school. I had spent the better part of an hour after school a few weeks earlier trying them on. The largest jacket just barely (and I mean barely) fit. The buttons yawned from the button holes and my white undershirt peeked through each space. It looked terrible, so I sucked in and held my breath as much as possible to compensate. Which, I might add, doesn�t work very well when you�re playing a WIND instrument....duh! The pants were another story. I couldn�t get any of them up past my hips. I kept going larger and larger until I tried on the biggest size & I was still about 6 inches from getting them zipped. I was so embarrassed that I ran out of the band room without telling my teacher that none of the uniforms fit. I didn�t tell him, that is, until about 2 days before the march and he came to me saying I wasn�t on his �list�. I explained the situation to him, in tears of course. He said, �No problem, my wife does some sewing and we�ll figure something out.� Relief washed over me. The night of the march I showed up in jeans - of course everybody is asking me where my uniform is. And what am I supposed to say? I just played dumb and wandered around, waiting for the arrival of my �new and improved� pants. My teacher pulled up and waved me over to the car, handed me the pants, and said he�d meet me on the field. I held them up.... and was fucking mortified. Picture this, if you will... The original pants were made from a super-heavy, royal blue fabric accented with huge gold stripes from waist to ankle. Of course they were made unisexly, and didn�t account one bit for hips and ass and thighs....all of which I had. As I set eyes upon these bastardized pants, I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks. My teacher�s wife had ripped out the butt and the belly seam, and inserted two bright sky-blue, T-shirt material triangles. These pants were shaped like a giant Y with robin egg-blue maternity panels. Of course, this wouldn�t have been so bad, except that the almost-too-small-jacket wasn�t long enough to cover this atrocity. I ran to the restroom and slammed the stall door. How could I wear these, in front of the whole school? In front of all the cool kids....and the jocks!? I knew I didn�t have a choice, and precious time was clicking away. I took off my jeans and stepped into the uniform pants. They got past the knees, no problem, but tightened significantly when I reached my thighs. Getting past the hips was a minor miracle, but when I went to button & zip them....I still couldn�t. I started to sweat. I could hear the crowd outside yelling as the mascot riled them into a frenzy. I sucked in my stomach over and over...but still couldn�t get them to button. I lay down on the bathroom floor - praying that no one would come in and see me. I clenched the zipper with whitened, numb fingers, sucked in one last time, and forced it closed over my belly. Yes! They zipped up!! A momentary feeling of relief washed over me. Until I tried to button them. I squeezed and writhed and sucked in until I was drenched with sweat and my hands were trembling...but I couldn�t get the button to snap. I stood up, almost ready to bawl, and shuffled to the bathroom mirror. When I saw the situation, I realized that because of the maternity triangles, the button hole and the button were no longer aligned...which is why it refused to close. That was it - they weren�t going to close no matter what I did. And boy, was I a sight to behold in my makeshift duds. My face, angry red and on the verge of hysteria, glared back at me from the mirror. �You stupid, fat, sorryful bitch� I said to my reflection. Suddenly a group of girls rushed into the room, and I took cover in my stall. I scrambled as I put on my jacket, tucked in (and subsequently �bloused-out�) my t-shirt, and put on my hat. I forced my jacket to button, and waited for the girls to leave. I couldn�t breathe. Adrenalin rushed over me until I was lightheaded and nauseated. The bathroom door shut and I was alone again. I faced the mirror one last time. I looked like ten pounds of shit stuffed in a very obnoxious, royal blue, maternity-triangled 5 pound bag. I ran out to meet the rest of the band right before we entered the field, swallowing my tears....eating my shame. Crunch crunch crunch goes the frozen grass. The bleachers came into full view and my eyes darted wildly, (we were all instructed to keep our eyes forward and our chins up.) The butterflies� wings in my stomach started flapping as if they were being chased by a 3-year old with a mason jar. I felt sick. Someone screamed from the stands, �Band Fags!� The crowd of my peers laughed and cheered the heckler on. He yelled out something more obscene but I blocked it out.....to hear would only make the humiliation worse. We fall into our pattern, each member quiet and awaiting the Band leader�s command to play �The Star Spangled Banner�. Using my eyeballs only, I surveyed the bleachers....scanning to see how many people could see the tragedy that was me.... so many faces peered back at me, so many ridiculers. I swooned. The band major raised his baton, and we commenced the opening number. I stepped to the side....10 steps back....3 steps to the right.....march in place for 4 measures. With each step my pants shifted....the seams began to twist and turn like a writhing snake until they were barber-poled around my legs. I felt the crotch tighten, and the fabric around my thighs constrict like a boa. My mind was racing, I stopped playing and fingered the flute like a ghost-player. I felt my pantlegs rise to high-water length, and it was only getting worse with each step. Somebody screamed from the stands, but I couldn�t make out the words....they were thankfully drowned out by instruments pounding out the final �land of the free, home of the brave� part. And then it was over. We turned and marched back into line and filed off the field. I looked down and my pants were jumbled and gathered and stretched in a mangled mass of blue and gold fabric. The tuba player pointed at my pants and said, �What the hell happened to your pants, Heather?� And then everybody around me turned to see the catastrophe. All eyes fell on my lower half and the faces around me turned to wicked clowns LAUGHING and pointing and snickering. I broke through the crowd, making sharp contact with the shoulder of my band teacher on the way out. �THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT!� I shouted, angrily. He ran to follow me as I stormed into the school.. �I AM NOT going back out there for half-time either!� I said. He explained he didn�t see what the problem was...that the pants didn�t really look that bad.... He explained that I had to go back out there in order to complete the patterns on the field....that I was part of team....that I couldn�t give up so easily. I stopped just short of the women�s restroom, looked him straight in the eye and said, �Flunk me.� I flew into the restroom and headed straight to the handicapped stall (you know, the stall the fat people like to use because its bigger) and broke down into a puddle of tears. I unzipped my pants to sit down and my gut literally spilled out onto my lap. I sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. More girls came into the bathroom and asked �Who�s crying in there? Are you alright?� But I didn�t answer. I just sat there, feeling like a piece of dirt, and wept convulsively until I had no more tears to give. I looked down at my duffle bag, which I had thankfully left on the sideline and thoughtfully grabbed on my way out of the taunting crowd. I stripped then, peeling off the layers of that uniform like a rotten onion. I tossed the uniform on the floor indignantly, and ground it into the filthy floor of the restroom under my shoes. I grabbed my clothes and slipped easily into my Lee�s jeans and an oversized sweatshirt. I felt anaesthetized, numb. I gathered my things and wandered through the crowds of hormonal teenagers and football parents. I wanted to just fade into black, to go unrecognized. I wanted to be that 18% of grey shade that never gets noticed. I needed to fall silently to sleep and never wake up again, to this reality. The parking lot was deserted. I heard roars from the stands as the quarterback did something or other. And then I heard the call for half-time, starring the �Sheridan High School Band�! I curled up beside the wheel of an SUV and ignored the dull ache in my belly, and the frigid pavement numbing my rear. And then the band played. The distorted sounds of trombones and clarinets floated on the October night, and met my ears with harsh discord. The sound droned on and on until I fell to sleep, on the cold, hard ground....completely exhausted. 1:02 p.m. - 10/31/01 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
||||||
|
||||||