Sweater Exchange

In my entire life, I have never had a friend who wears the same size clothing as I do. I'm not exactly what one would call "skinny". In fact, I'm quite the opposite. Kind of chubby, and pretty short. Not a great combination for the classic beauty. I used to watch my friends switch clothes. Wear each others shirts, and jeans, and tank tops. I was so jealous. I felt that in some mystical way it would draw me closer to my friends. A short of promise that we'll stick around. There's a movie called Practical Magic. 2 sisters were very close, but very different people. One was quiet and conservative, while the other was eccentric and and what you could call "boy crazy". At the beginning of the movie, the young, boy-crazy sister was running away with what she was convinced was her "soul mate". As she departed in the middle of the night, the two cut their hands open and grasped hands. This was a sort of bonding thing that some girls do. Like blood sisters. I always thought that exchanging clothes would be something of the sort. I hated that I was too fat to change clothes with any of my best friends. This year, however, I finally found a girl, a good friend, who's the same size and shape as I am. We are also surprisingly alike in personality and issues. We exchanged sweaters the other day, and I love it. Like a dream come true. Perhaps I should proclaim her my "Sweater Sister".

Fear Factor

I have come to the conclusion that I am a wee bit of a b!tch. There have been a few "incidents" where this became evident to me, but one sticks out in my mind. About a week and a half ago, I came to orchestra a little bit late. I immediately got out my violin to begin but soon realized that I was ridiculously out of tune. Since I was late, I hadn't gotten the chance to help tune the other kids in the class, nor myself. See, having played the violin for several years now, I am far above the new students in the class. I had been planning on going into the advanced class, but scheduling conflicts arose and I settled on being an aid of some sort in the beginning orchestra. I would help out with tuning, finger placement, notes, and strings. After getting out my violin and bow, I moved to one of the soundproofed practice rooms to tune with the piano in there. About 3 minutes later when I exited, I couldn't find my bow. Being passionate abut music I naturally started to panic. I retraced my steps throughout the classroom, and even back into the storage closet where I keep my instrument. 5 or 10 minutes later, I still couldn't find it. By now I was on the brink of tears. How could I have lost a bran-new $70 bow?? I started walking around the class, whispering to fellow violinists. "Have you seen a bow anywhere?" "Did you borrow my violin bow?". I was trying so hard to be mature about it, but still, I wanted to throw a big fit in the middle of class. I imagine myself sitting on the floor like a four year old, balling for my mommy (or in this case my bow). That led certainly attract more attention, and possibly motivation for action to find the bow. I picture sending out a full-fledged search party. With hound dogs and muscled men dressed in old fashioned raincoats and jackets. We'd find a single horse hair draped across a a tree in a long forgotten forest, and the hound dogs would pull at their leashes, guiding their masters toward an accessory to my most prized possession. "Calm down, Violet. Calm down." I continue my search in the music room. Eventually, I came to my least favorite person in the room. The most obnoxious, egocentric person I have ever met. Lets call him "Jason". So I ask "Jason". "Have you seen my bow, anywhere?" He gazes up at me with a poorly arranged look of clueless on his face. My anger flares, but I mumble my mantra "Calm down," I stretch out my vowels for added affect "Caaalm doown. . . " With only a moment having passes I looked at him skeptically. Disbelief etched in my voice I replied. "Really." Suddenly, something strange struck me. "Where's your violin?" He struggled for words as I continued to stare him down. "B-b-broken. I put-t it away just a minute ago." "Uh-huh." A moment of silence passed, and suddenly he half-halfheartedly began a new act. "Wait a bow? You mean, like a violin bow?" "No Der" I think. "Well, I saw one, I minute ago. I think. Maybe. Actually, yes." An enlightened look crossed his face in fake realization. " It was on the floor, and so I picked it up and put it in my case when I put my stuff away." The last straw had been pulled. Lightening streaked the ceiling and furious thunder echoed in the classroom. My face was like the Mount of Doom. "What?" Saying I was merely upset, or angry or frustrated would be a drastic understatement. Saying I was aggravated, or furious still would be an understatement. There is no word in existence to describe my anger. It could have parted the Atlantic. It would have moved entire mountains. It would of dried up the Salt Lake. His face straightened in fear. I grabbed his wrist and dragged him into the hall. For 15 minutes I yelled, b!tched, screamed, lectured and guilt-ed. People passing marveled at my anger. Normally, I'm a really patient, understanding person. I never really get angry, and I definitely never scream at some random kid in the middle of class, in the middle of the hall. It was unheard of! When at last I was finished, the kid was at the brink of tears. Watching him stagger back into the music room holding back tears was almost enough to feel bad for the kid. And here it dawned on me: I am a b!tch.