Dress Rehearsal

In our house, Saturday mornings in the fall consist of pancakes and College Gameday on ESPN. Last Saturday morning, instead of watching College Gameday on the day that SMU was playing for a conference championship, I fulfilled my fatherly duty and took Ella to rehearsal for the children’s Christmas pageant at church.  It wasn’t too big of a sacrifice because we recorded the broadcast. Parental sacrifice has been reduced to a minor nuisance since the invention of the DVR. I keep trying to explain to Ella what life was like before we had DVRs, but I don’t think she will ever understand. And I’m glad she doesn’t have to.

It was a dress rehearsal, so I told Ella to wear something with a holiday theme.  So, my always-obedient daughter put on her favorite Halloween outfit.  Daddy’s fault.  I did not specify which holiday. It was a mistake that I would not repeat on the day of the actual production.

As we walked into the sanctuary to gather for the rehearsal, I realized that I had committed the ultimate societal blunder – I had forgotten my phone.  Who leaves the house without their phone? I’m more likely to leave the house without my pants than my phone. What was I going to do for an hour and a half? No email.  No Facebook. No YouTube. And no chance to knock out the daily Wordle.

Sweat-filled panic set in as I pondered the butterfly effect if one of my friends texted me a meme and I wasn’t able to immediately reply with a laughing emoji.  Would he think I was ignoring him? Would he find my lack of response offensive? Would he think I didn’t want to be friends anymore? Those are the only options because nobody could be foolish enough to leave the house without their phone. 

There I sat in a pew by myself relegated to my self-imposed prison completely cut off from the world. Because I had only slept about two hours the night before, I had already solved most of the world’s problems during the previous twelve hours and found myself with absolutely nothing to do.  I had no choice but to observe the world around me and watch the Children’s Choir rehearsal. 

I hadn’t seen a group of people more disinterested than the time I took the History of Ancient Civilizations in college and looked around the classroom while the professor lectured on ancient Sumerian culture. Blank stares. Wandering minds. Heads in the clouds or anyplace else than their current physical location.  Instead of singing, these kids had visions of Sugar Plum Fairies and Pokemon cards dancing through their heads.

Only 8% of the kids were actually singing, and only 5% of those singing were singing on pitch.  But there is nothing cuter than watching a kid belt out a series of independently pitched notes as loud and joyful as they can. My daughter would have been one of the 5% because she has good pitch, but she was one of the 92% doing everything other than singing.

In every kid’s choir, there is always one child with lungs the size of the Goodyear Blimp because he can sing at a decibel level on par with a sonic boom.  One of the ironclad cruelties of life is that this particular child is always one of the 95% of children who is off pitch).

One kid had a problem because it seemed like she had a condition that could only be solved by countless trips to the bathroom. I can only assume that she has a bladder the size of a fruit fly or she is on drugs. Or both.

One boy took this as an opportunity to work on his Floss Dance skills. He spent the entire 90 minutes honing his craft. By the end, I don’t know what was more tired, his hips, his arms, or my eyes. Two other kids spent the entire time dancing what looked like their personal interpretation of The Wobble regardless of the tempo of the song they were supposed to be singing.

Many of the children spent the entire time punching the kid next to them in the arm.  “Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good fight.”

As I became mentally absorbed by the various subplots unfolding before me, it never missed my electronic companion. It was the most entertaining 90 minutes I’ve experienced in recent memory, and it was better than anything I’ve ever read on my phone.