My daughter and her friends went to the first high school football game of the season last week. She came home talking about how much fun they had. It makes my heart so happy, because it reminds me so much of my own high school days, and I lived for football season. I recognize that high school isn’t everyone’s favorite childhood memory, but for me, those years hold so much nostalgia. It was also where I met my husband, so that’s a plus.
My freshman year I joined the band. I played the clarinet, and if I can just be honest, I was pretty good at it. We kicked off the year with marching season, and despite the white Pee-wee Herman shoes and ill-fitting red polyester pants, I adored it! We had a short break from the official band uniform during the first few games because it was August in Texas. Instead, we wore collared polo shirts and khaki walking shorts that, had we also had black knee high socks, would have borne a strong resemblance to everyone’s grandpa.
It didn’t take long to notice the smaller group within the band called the color guard. I instantly realized that I could still enjoy all of the activities in band while not having to wear the dreadful uniform. I could curl my hair and wear a sparkly headband with a glittery leotard. It was the ultimate upgrade scenario.
That spring, I tried out for flags (aka color guard) and despite my general lack of coordination or dancing ability, I made it. To make things even more amazing, my two best friends made it as well. We counted down the months until marching season rolled around again. This time, we were sophomores, armed with a six foot aluminum pole and jazz shoes. JAZZ SHOES. We were unstoppable.
There was a slight learning curve when it came to tossing those flags. As it turned out, we exchanged our band uniforms for a handful of head injuries on particularly windy days, but it was so worth it.
Being in flags was everything I dreamed it would be. Instant friendships, fun practices, and did I mention jazz shoes? Out-of-town bus rides are a particular favorite memory of mine. We had the luxury of wearing regular hairstyles instead of stuffing our hair into a sweaty band hat, so the last half-hour of the bus ride was spent helping each other do our hair for the game.
I’ll never forget the day one of my friends whipped out a CORDLESS curling iron from her monogrammed duffel bag. Our eyes bugged out of our heads and we were instantly mesmerized. The thing ran on butane (I can smell it to this day) and we took turns passing it around, marveling at the sheer genius of the technology. We were practically the Jetsons.
What a world.
I’m thankful I didn’t really understand what butane was at the time, and equally thankful we never got close to an open flame while perfecting our teased bangs, singeing the life out of our hair and sealing the deal with half a can of Rave hairspray.
My own kids didn’t join band in high school. They have other talents like singing and performing and playing volleyball. Since I had the upper body strength of a sea slug, volleyball was never in my future. And singing requires people looking at you sometimes while you perform a solo. So for me, band was the best option.
And my goodness, it was a good time. Especially when we got to play with butane.