Tag Archives: blackheads

epiphanies

2 Aug

My life has been a series of epiphanies. When I was in elementary school, I sat at the peanut-free table in the cafeteria. I had no allergies myself, but one little brat of a girl, Molly, forced all of my friends to come sit there. Molly was a pale redhead with freckles dotting her dry, wrinkly skin. Metal wires and rubber bands and other dentalware invaded her chapped smile. I don’t even remember why I disliked her so much. To this day, though, I can’t help but grimace at the very thought of her. Anyway, I remember very clearly going to a birthday party where we all sang karaoke. After both Molly and I had sung, I asked my friends which one of us was a better singer. With creased eyebrows and apologetic half-smiles, the girls told me that they thought Molly was better. I was incensed. How could Molly–whose voice was as scratchy and coarse as her hands (and this is not a biased description)–how could she possibly be a better singer than I? My voice was smooth and sonorous, and even at that age had a hint of natural vibrato. I puzzled over it for days.
I’m not sure how long afterwards my epiphany was, but I do know that it occurred sometime in fourth or fifth grade music class. We always sat in a circle, listening and singing and drumming and clapping. It wasn’t until the teacher started teaching us the hand signs that go along with each note (do, re, mi) that I realized: melodies are made up of individual segmented tones. Molly was a better singer than me so long ago not because her voice was prettier (it wasn’t) but because she knew about the whole “note” secret! After it clicked, I was finally able to distinguish one note from another. I’ve since joined choirs and won vocal awards. Because my voice is way better than stupid Molly’s.
A similar epiphany of mine was that of ballet. It wasn’t until I had already quit, forgotten everything, and then attempted a new class in Japan that I realized that ballet is about patterns of motions more than anything. Call me crazy, but it simply never dawned on me that barre work is, more or less, ALWAYS THE SAME.
My mother introduced me to pimple squishing during my ghastly early adolescence. It took another couple of years for it to occur to me that one could squeeze blackheads, too. My nose has never looked so spotty since.
It wasn’t until the middle of my junior year of high school that I realized that fashion involves paying attention to arbitrary ins and outs, rather than wearing the same dreary men’s sweatshirt every day.
I’m sure I have plenty more epiphanic experiences that I simply can’t remember, cant be bothered to write or just can’t be sure you’d want to read, anyway. But I’ve determined that everything that I can’t do is just something I haven’t had an epiphany for yet.
I suppose someday, hopefully when I’m old (but not too old), my eyes will widen with that final epiphany
and my blood will
lose its momentum,
slowing to a halt,
and my skin
will grow
cold
and
stiff.

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