I was part of a singing group in high school. I was stoked about it with one reservation: the senior solo. Every year, the graduating seniors were essentially forced to sing, by themselves, in front of the entire high school. To be fair, I didn’t go to a big high school, but I’d honestly get stage fright singing in front of two people. So.
It is not rational for someone to think about the two minutes and thirty seconds she will spend singing a song three years from her present state. And yet, I began worrying, planning and hatching escape plots, the second I was admitted. (This is not an over exaggeration. Sarah can attest, because she did the exact same thing. We were nuts about this.)
When I finally settled on a song, (Three years later. YES. Three years from the time I was already beginning to flip out.) I slowly counted down the days to graduation. I was less nervous about graduating, less nervous about getting into college, about actually attending college, than I was about this solo.
Aaaaaaaaaaand, it went off without any major hitches. I mean, it was fine. It was a pretty meek performance of “The Boxer” by Simon & Garfunkel. But I was so proud. I was so happy. Just the fact that I actually did it, that I hadn’t managed to find an alternative. Good moment. Big moment.
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