Under one elbow is my plush cat-shaped pillow pet, and the other, my Vera Bradley bag stuffed with tights, tacky group t-shirts, and enough hairspray to stiffen a small village. I’ve been excused from the rest of my Friday classes so that I, along with 49 other tween-agers, can embark on a coach bus journey through the snowy Midwest USA. The end destination? A high school gym in which we will sing and dance four songs, typically of the musical theatre persuasion, lathered in pageant makeup and sequins.
Perhaps you’re wondering why I’ve dredged up the past, and in all honesty,
it’s because not sharing these experiences would mean depriving you of its
comic genius, and that just didn’t sit right with me.
Here’s a video for some background knowledge —–> HERE (lmk when you spot me. Hint: I’m the blonde in purple)
No jokes were involved in the making of this 20-minute performance. The commitment was astonishingly next level.
To my surprise, show choir quickly became my life, mostly due to the fact that the sheer thought of physical activity made my mouth fill with stomach bile. Instead of kicking a muddy ball around a field and encasing my head in pre-wrap, I fell victim to blood orange lipstick and sad alto harmonies. The cult I’d joined cost equivalent to a Gucci bag, and that’s not counting the therapy it inflicted. Not to be dramatic, but that shit kinda hurted.
Imagine spending six months rehearsing the same four songs, just to find out you’ve been dictated to a life on the back riser, precisely out of view to
anyone not readily prepped with binoculars. Of course, that wasn’t the case for me, since I was the equivalent of Rachel Berry. I just felt bad for everyone else. ://
When teenagers are forced together for the same number of hours as a part-time job, they’re bound to make friends. To my dismay, I can accredit show choir to the forming of a friend group I still routinely visit upon entering Nebraska. (If you want to read more about that, then check out this post —> HERE)
What I failed to mention prior was that water bottles filled with bottom
shelf vodka, (god bless dirty-b’s) were also concealed in my floral Vera
Bradley bag. My despicable friends and I opened our vocal chords and guzzled the hand-sanitizer fluid down our churlish throats. This, as one may have predicted, resulted in us becoming remarkably blasted in a school purchased hotel room. I’m allowed to say this now that I have my degree, I think. While our doors were taped shut in an attempt to discourage this sort of activity, it aided in our group chats becoming straight fire. No, we were not physically together. We were each in our separate rooms, texting each other.
We got drunk . . . to text each other, which surprisingly is not unlike what I do on a normal Tuesday night in College.
Putting aside the idea of committing misdemeanors, there’s lots of other
things I could make fun of regarding show choir. Local competitions were a
thing of their own. After willingly placing my tongue against a plastic first place trophy, followed by a subpar rendition of The Fresh Prince of Bel-air theme song, we hauled ass to claim a booth at the International House of Pancakes. As if 17 hours with the same people wasn’t enough, we simply needed to consume a late-night meal in unison.
All jokes aside, this was something I took very seriously amid my young adult life. “Jazz hands” was, and will still be a term of endearment. I wish I was kidding.
Plain and simple, I can’t emphasize enough how important it is to me that all of my College friends know I was a member of the #1 Show Choir in Nebraska . . . until we were defeated last year.
P.S. if anyone with authority over said group or high school is reading this . . . I made it all up. It’s satire. Okay bye.