My wardrobe malfunction

Last week has to have been one of the most crammed I have ever expreicened. I wrote 6 final exams (and another was cancelled… can they do that?). As well, I sang a short Bach cantata “O Jesulein Süss” at the Wednesday concert and participated in a production of Bach’s “Magnificat”, which meant Wednesday and Thursday were lost and never to return and that my Friday solfege exam just about lives up to my pointal ist atone smears of yester-term.

So, the malfunction… ya, it was Thursday night about 3 mins before leaving (I think Karen already had her coat on) and I went to the closet to throw on the shirt I was planning to wear. I had already polished my shoes and even purchased a Burgundy tie as the choir director requested. But as I pulled out the shirt I had previously only viewed on its side (uninspected in the closet), something seemed different, even odd, was the shirt white (I remember it being almost blinding white when I boughts years ago in Edmonton), yes it was supposed to be white but large rings and discoloured back told me that a) this shirt was definitelyely n.o.t. washed before being hung up in the closet and b) the last time I wore the shirt I was probably attempting a land speed record by foot in Gobi desert. Thoughts came rushing in, piling on top of each other, some fighting, others jumping and skirting about, bumping in other thoughts that up until that point were quite happy fightinging among themselves. Then when all thoughts were in uproarour, they were reduced to a high pitched ringing sound (which of course was of some concern to me, I didn’t like the thought of losing my hearing and certainly not the night of a concert). I decided to put the shirt on, how bad could it be? I called for Karen to come have an inspection. I had to wear the shirt as it was my only white one, but the rings in the mirror and the look disdainain in Karen’s face told me that that high pitched ringing sound better start coming up with some good ideas.

First though kicked out of the bickering hoard was one of justification. “Its bad I know, but I always stand in the back. Nobody will see my shirt… and … when I walk on to the stage… I’ll walk fast!”. This was borderline delusionary and topped off by the thought “oh, I just wear a sweater”. Next in line was a more plausible but risky thought. I could stop off at the used clothing store (where I purchased my pretty Burgundy tie) on the way to the concert and grab any white collared shirt that wasn’t XXL. This thought, while rather crazy, was more appealing and could fall back on the first if all was lost.

On that thought, Karen and I were out the door, myself sporting my fabulously un-white shirt and sweater and Karen a growing ulcer and fleeting patience. The majority of the ringing sound didn’t honestly believeive that we had any time to stop off for shopping before the show and questioned the likelihood of there being a usable shirt. This cynicism was only deepened by Karen’s commenting that she didn’t think that the store would be open at time of night. We proceeded silently from bus to metro, contemplating my chances. We got off one metro earlier than normal thinking it might save some time. Checking the clock my phone, it looked like we had made good time so far. We did a half jog scuttledle walk to the store and it was open Yay!. I teleported myself to the shirts and began scanning the racks. Between Karen and I we came up with three contestants and I was off to the change room. One shirt was too big, another too small, but the last was just right.Ok ok it wasn’t just right but almost. First off it was clean… and pressed (bonus), but when I went to button up the cuffs there were no buttons. Hmm, all in all I cut my losses and declared a winner. Next as we were in line I consulted the ringing for a solution to my cuff problem. There’s got to be a safety pin in Karen’s purse .. um nope … they gotta have pins at the cash… um nope. I asked Karen to hunt down any sort of pin in the store but that wasn’t happening either. Then I looked through the window and saw a Jean Coutu across the street. Karen ran over to find something to keep my cuffs together while I ran to get to the church on time.

Things seemed like they were coming together, I had arrived in time and changed in to my new shirt, which was when Diego stopped to greet me and noticed my most truly un-white shirt lying on top of my bag. “Whhow” was his reaction and I told him about my ordeal. Karen arrived with a box of sewing pins and we began work clipping my shirt in a way that would not leave me bleeding from my wrists at the end of the night. We pushed the needles through the thick of the cuffs and bent them so they wouldn’t fall out. Karen left to find a seat (and recover from the last 50 mins.) as the choir sections began to file out on to the stage. I fell in line and marched out on to the stage happy and relieved, only moments later to placed in the front row.