Church, bras, and tangled hair

I was discussing with a co-worker this evening a church that my family attended when I was a baby, and it brought to mind the last time I attended Mass there.  We had moved elsewhere for church when I was still quite little, but occasionally still went to Mass there for a while.  Eventually, though, we had stopped altogether going there, and always went to one of two other nearby churches.  Therefore, it is easy for me to remember the last time I attended Mass at this particular church, because it was a singular event, with no other occurrences within years of its happening.

My youngest brother and I were tasked with going to church together on our own.  He was probably 16 or so, making me 12 at the time.  I remember how we were hanging out at home, and how he was playing games on the still-new PS2.  And I eventually finished getting dressed at the last minute, and we rushed off to Mass.

We ended up having the Mass time incorrect, so we weren’t just a little bit late to Mass.  But we stayed, anyway, and attended what little was left of it once we arrived.  When we arrived back home, a very unique experience happened, and one which I feel shows how loving we are, my brothers and I.  I had worn this top that went on like a tube top – yes, there were sleeves of some sort, or else a sweater that I wore over it, but it went on like a tube top.  However, it wasn’t the usual stretchy material of tube tops, but rather a somewhat set-size material with elastic around the top piece to help it stay in place.  (I’m almost certain that it had wide-ish straps, but nothing like actual sleeves to it.  I remember specifically that I had to wear a strapless bra with it, because of the strap situation, but that is all of which I am certain about the straps – strapless bra required.)

When I went to remove my top, changing out of the nicer clothes and into comfy, regular clothes, I got myself stuck.  You know the feeling… pulling it upward first, and, at the pivotal point, feeling the fabric stop sliding and suddenly hold tightly to the width of your currently-expanded shoulder blades… and being incapable of pulling the top back down, because your arms are now stuck up in the air, because the fabric really just doesn’t give almost at all.

So, what could I do but get help?  I remember having the slight concern of going to my brother for help, because he would see my bra! my thoughts shouted in whispered tones.  It took almost no time to accept the social standard as just that, and then to let it go.  I was beginning to panic at being stuck, when I was walking back out into the living room for help from my brother.  He easily stopped immediately what he was doing, and came to the rescue.  I think it might have actually taken us a good bit of effort to free me, but we eventually succeeded, and I was grateful for his help.

And, what is amazing about this, really, is that neither of us was uncomfortable with the situation.  Sure, it was an odd situation – I was already at the point of having been able to dress myself alone successfully for years.  But it was still easy for us both, because of our love and care for one another.

 

As another brief anecdote, I remember a time my oldest brother was babysitting me, and I went to use my mom’s rounded brush, typically used for curling hair while blowdrying, to brush my hair.  I did it in a sort of hurry, and somehow twisted the brush while it still had my hair running through it (I had long hair at the time), and began brushing a new spot on my head… ultimately knotting a big chunk of my hair into the brush.

My brother was able to reach my mom on the phone, and she said to check with the neighbors, because the mother there might be able to help unknot my hair.  A good, long while later, the neighbor was convinced that my hair had to be cut, in order to remove the brush.  I remember my mom’s voice on the phone declaring, “Do not cut her hair,” to my brother.  I think it took over an hour, possibly longer, and I don’t remember who finally did it (though my brother, the neighbor, and I all worked on it at times, and my mom might even have had to finish it up when she got home later), but my hair eventually was freed.  And I was concerned about ever using that kind of brush in my hair again.

Obviously.

You know, I think those were the worst that ever really happened when my brothers were in charge of babysitting… not bad, I think.  🙂

Post-a-day 2017

Singing, Showering, and liking you better…

Today, I sent a message to my best friend that read, “For some reason, I regularly think about messaging you when I go to the bathroom”

Her response was prompt and simple.  “Lol,” followed by, “You like me so much better when youre naked”

“Duh,” was my casual response.

You see, the whole thing started back in college.  Freshman year, I was Skype-ing with Christine one day, probably early morning.  I had gone into the common room to chat with her, but, since we were in an all-girls dormitory, and it was too early for visitors to be around, I wasn’t fully dressed (probably just a t-shirt and underwear).  When we started the call, she let me know that a friend of hers was with her, and that it was a guy (because it was already afternoon in Cambridge, England, so it was normal to be hanging out with people already there). So, I had to go put on some more clothing before we turned on the camera.  (At least, I think that was the case… she might have just checked to make sure I was properly clothed, because I regularly would be not fully clothed.  Either way, the next part did happen.)  When I commented about this, the guy friend of hers made a comment about liking someone so much better naked (I forget if it was about Christine liking me, or what, but it was totally silly, and seemed such an odd comment.)  We both were lacking in understanding at first, but he explained that there was an actual song (by Ida Maria), and that that was the line the girl used in it.  (See, it made sense and wasn’t actually weird at all.)

The chorus goes like this:

But I won’t mind
If you take me home
Come on, take me home
I won’t mind
if you take off all your clothes
Come on, take them off
‘Cause I like you so much better when you’re naked
I like me so much better when you’re naked
I like you so much better when you’re naked
I like me so much better when you’re naked

We found it hilarious.  We found the actual song and music video, and fell in a sort of this is silly and utterly ridiculous, but I still love it kind of love with the song.

I shared it with my hallway neighbor, who played guitar, and we tried playing it a bit on the guitar.  I eventually played it for Christine one day on Skype.  My greatest, proudest achievement with the song, however, was the time I snuck into the bathrooms (they were shared, and had loads of stalls and multiple showers) one day, just after Jessie, the neighbor, had gone in to shower.  Once I knew she was actually in the shower, showering, I walked into the showering area (mind you, not into her stall, just in the showering section of the bathroom), and began playing the song on guitar, and singing it to her.  I could hear her snorting, gurgling, guffawing laugher emitting from the shower stall as I sang and played.  It was spectacular for the both of us.  I shared the story with my best friend, too, and she loved it.*

So, the song has always held a special little place in our hearts, minds, and lives, all three of us.  Everyone else probably just thinks we’re crazy, whenever they overhear us mentioning or quoting or singing it.  😛

Here’s a link to the music video.

 

*This reminds me… I sang to a friend of mine in Japan while she showered one night.  We were chatting on the phone, just hanging out one night, after we’d both gotten internet, and so didn’t have to hang up after every five minutes anymore, and she really needed to shower, but we weren’t ready to end our conversation/hanging out.  So, she set the phone to the side on speakerphone, and I sang to her while she showered.  I had been humming and singing quietly already anyway, so what was the difference if I just did it a little louder, right?  It was spectacular, of course.  Then a night or few later, when I mentioned to another friend that this had happened, he complained that I didn’t sing for him and that that certainly wasn’t fair.  And so I sang to him over the phone… and he fell asleep.  😛  Spectacular in a different sort of way, I guess, but still spectacular.  🙂

Post-a-day 2017

 

College Crush

After meeting up with a friend from college tonight, I have college people on my mind.  This friend mentioned, “I think you just knew more people than I did,” (I might have edited that for improved grammar, but I really don’t remember.) an idea that seems almost crazy, seeing as how he spent the full time on campus, but I only spent about half of my shortened college career on campus.  And I was placed in the introvert section of my freshman dorm… I think I was the only one who knew everyone in my hall that year.

One person in particular has come to mind as I mingle in this thought of meeting so many people: my reasonable crush.  Certainly, I had more than one little crush in college, but there was one who didn’t seem to have anything like a big red flag, when it came to the idea of practicality of the crush.  It wasn’t like I ever intended to do anything about the crush, but he was the only one who might actually have agreed to go on a date with me, had I somehow found myself asking him.

I don’t recall the absolute first time we met, but the first time we really had a one-on-one was at a regular college party.  I had gone over with some girls from my hall – we’d all ridden in one girl’s car together.  No one expected me to stay long at the party, but I usually went to the party for a little bit, chatted, danced, hung out, went home, and then went back to the party to pick up the girls whenever they were finished for the night.  On this particular night, nothing was different.  I was alcohol-free and dancing near a corner, I believe (more out of avoiding having alcohol spilled on me and drunk guys trying to rub up on me, than out of an attempt to isolate myself).  And, somehow, I found myself talking with this guy.  

He was cute in his drunken efforts to flirt and be sweet, though the fact that the efforts were drunken gave him no real chance of anything other than talking a bit with me.  Afterward, at least one of the girls commented on how he wouldn’t leave me alone at the party, we talked for so long.  I enjoyed the attention, but the drunken lining was not to my taste, so I considered little on the matter.  I was just talking to a guy half out of his wits, and he was nice.  And that was it.  I don’t remember when my crush began with him, if it was before or a while after this experience, but I never accept drunken thoughts as forms of true, desired communication, so his “interest” was easily disregarded.  And a guy drinking at a college party usually wants sex, not a girlfriend and potential wife.

But, later on, after the crush was fully settled within me, I delighted in watching him swim fabulously on the swim team, one of the cool sports at our school where everyone seemed to be just really neat people of various backgrounds.

Anyway, by the time I was visiting one of my best friends, years later, in her last semester of college (I finished college early, remember.), my crush was in full swing.  My friend informed me that my crush lived in the house just over from hers.  I had already envied her living in that particular old-style house near campus, and I only envied it more at this piece of information.

‘He showed up at the back door, and asked for butter once.’  (Or was it that she asked him for butter, and he asked her for eggs once?  I’ll have to ask her.  She might still remember.)

We both knew I was filled with teenage girl crush envy at this.  I could have possibly befriended him, if I had taken longer for college, and lived in my rightfully earned place at that awesome house.  But I didn’t, and so it goes.

Anyway, he’s hopefully more gorgeous than ever, working a great job, and making great money that allows him to clad himself in stunning attire.  I haven’t kept up, but he’s still gorgeous in my head, and I think I’m actually nervous to look him up and find out that his health and looks didn’t improve with age since college.

Post-a-day 2017

A Window of Opportunity…?

“I have a question of morality… Is it morally sound to go out my window, and climb this scaffolding, to figure out where this guitar is coming from?”

A minute later, after a chuckled reassurance from my mother, that it was not an issue in terms of morality, I was off the phone and climbing out my bedroom window.  The air was cold and smelled of rain and incense.  Things were still wet in places from the day’s rain, but the scaffolding against my building – I think it was put there in order for the windows all to be replaced, but nothing seems to have happened yet, and it’s been up for a couple or few weeks now – was mostly dry.  I slipped on my sandals as I stepped onto the scaffolding, and began my search for lights.

You see, I have been hearing this guitar playing these past few-ish weeks, and I haven’t been able to figure out from where it is coming.  At first, I wasn’t sure if it actually was someone playing guitar, or just a recording that I was hearing.  Actually, the very first time I heard it, I was already falling asleep, and so couldn’t fully register whether it were real or not.  That is, of course, until I heard it while I was still awake one night.  Then I knew I wasn’t imagining things.  Sort of, anyway.  I still could only hear this guitar late at night and from my bedroom.  Whenever I opened my window to hear better, the noise from cars outside made it almost impossible to discern the source of the sound, let alone hear it.  So, I still felt like I might have been just making up the guitar, because I so wanted to have someone nearby be a guitar player.

Until tonight, that is.  I was on the phone with my mom, and I could hear it at the edge of my living room.  I went into my bedroom, and it was even more audible.  I checked the wound outside the window, and there were few enough cars, with space enough between them, that I could hear the guitar playing… and singing with it!  So, I ditched the phone, grabbed my shoes, and went out.

Have you ever been in the middle of doing something, and suddenly wondered to yourself how you could have been so stupid as to do whatever it was you were currently doing?  I climbed up decently well enough, and I even checked to make sure my legs could reach all the right places to be able to get back down.  But the fact that it is 8 degrees (46 F) outside right now, and this metal scaffolding spent its days being rained upon, had me wondering if I weren’t just being incredibly stupid, climbing up it in my sandals and bare hands.

I discovered two windows with lights on, and quickly figured out from which one the sound was coming.  I had to climb up two levels of scaffolding to reach the actual window, but I managed it.  Of course, once I was pulling myself up to a point where I could just start to see inside the window, I wondered how terribly this could go, should someone inside see me.  Screaming, shouting, and possibly objects being flung at me were certainly possibilities.  Being kicked out of my apartment for being a stalker/total creep was another.  And any chance at explaining myself was unlikely, as I could not have shed almost any light on my situation by using Japanese, and I knew I had a weak argument anyway – it is definitely abnormal to be doing what I was doing.  I mean… come on.  This is the stuff you find in movies.  Stuff the stupid character does, and always gets caught doing.

So, I decided just to peek enough to figure out what kind of room it was.  If it were a bedroom with doors shut, perhaps other people were sleeping.  If it were a living room, sleeping people would be less likely.  And, if it were a layout like my apartment, to where it would be a bedroom, but it had the door open to the living room, then it was quite likely that no one was asleep.  And, if no one was asleep, then I could go upstairs and knock and be all, ‘Hey, let’s be buddies and play and sing music together.’

My concern of getting caught left me only figuring out that it was a different layout from my apartment, but that the room seemed to be a small one.  What looked (based on windows and walls) to be the potential living room had its lights off.  So, I climbed back down and into my bedroom (slipping off my sandals as I slid in the window, of course), and went to start some laundry and take a quick shower, so I could mull things over a bit.

After showering, I could still hear the guitar playing, so I dressed in pj-style clothes and my rain boots, and went upstairs.  It turned out that what I had thought to be two apartments above me was actually only one, and I could hear my washing machine as I stood on their landing.  (Odd that I can hear that, but almost never hear anything else, and neither do I get noise complaints of any kind.)  Unfortunately, because of the sound of the washer, I couldn’t hear the guitar.  At least, I think that’s why I couldn’t hear it anymore.

I was too concerned at just knocking on the door, when I wasn’t certain that the guitar was still being played.  The lights were off just inside the door, so it was certainly possible that the player had actually gone to bed in the past few minutes.  It was already after 11pm, after all.  So, I went back downstairs, and checked to see if I could still hear the guitar.

Nothing.  At least, I couldn’t quite tell.  But, when my washer stopped a few minutes later, I didn’t hear the guitar anymore.  (Gosh, this guitar thing is a complicated sort of mystery, I swear.)  😛

Now, after having laid out my clothes to dry, all the while thinking over my situation, I decided to wait another few days.  If, by next week (I’m gone all weekend this weekend), I haven’t heard it again, I’ll put a note on their door.  If, however, I do hear the guitar, I’ll go up as soon as I hear it, and knock on their door.  Hopefully, I will be accepted and admitted, and wonderful jointly made music will ensue.  And, hopefully, they (I think two people live upstairs) will be understanding, should they ever happen find out about my scaffolding adventure… or maybe it’s best that they just never find out… yeah…

 

Update: It is 00:18, and I am about to turn off my light to sleep.  The guitar has suddenly returned, and in full force, with male singing.  I’m exhausted, so I’m going to sleep.  Plus, I’m already out of normal clothes and into my Sulley onesie.  Next time.  Next time.

Post-a-day 2017