And there I stood...

…with a big ol’ rip in my pants.

...a few of my recent book-ish creations

When I left the house this morning, I was feeling pretty dang good. (And also kinda pretty.) My hair was following instructions (not always the case). I had finally found a simple black top to wear with some artsy, wide legged pants that are also super comfortable. The dogs had been fed. I’d remembered the clean, empty jar I wanted to fill with freshly ground peanut butter at the co-op on the way home. I’d remembered the “Goodnight Moon” postage stamps I’d picked up for my dad. I even knew where my keys were.

I was out the door well before The Last Minute, which gave me just enough time to swing by the thrift store and drop off a box of “don’t need this” before the 10 a.m. choir warm-up at church.*

The choir is one of the many small communities I belong to. We’re a motley crew, and there’s quite a bit of gray hair in our ranks. We love what we do, and we love each other. We share concerns, joys, successes, needs, and rides, and we often sing pieces that should be—but miraculously are not—beyond our capabilities. In other words, we are greater than the sum of our parts.

Anyway. We warmed up. We rehearsed the anthem. Chatted a bit. The service began, and one second before we stood for the first hymn, I looked down and saw…

…a significant rip in my pants. L-shaped. In the front, just above crotch level, ever so slightly to the right.

My brain went into overdrive, suddenly running on five or six tracks at once: page 26… when did this happen??? sing now! didn’t i look in the mirror before i left the house…? what shows? how long is my shirt? not long enough! done singing sit down safety pin nope sewing kit nope maybe some tape… tape!

After the anthem, I walked—nonchalantly—out the side door and into the church office, where I repaired the rip, as best I could, with scotch tape, applied to the inside of the pants, and returned to sit with my dad. Life went on.

I have no idea why I am telling this story.

Or maybe I do. Maybe it’s because, during my five-minute kerfuffle, I remembered something. Back in my theatre days, when I was horribly self-conscious, tormented, and perpetually embarrassed about everything, my good friend Trent said to me: “Kathy, you need to understand that nobody is thinking about you half as much, or half as often, as you think they are.”

Trent’s words of wisdom—spoken with a mixture of love and exasperation—come back to me whenever I find myself making mountains out of ant hills. When I post photos of my little book-ish items, or my paintings, or my poems, and the gremlins begin to gather round, I hear his voice, and it calms me. I’m reminded that I am not, by any manner of means, the center of anyone’s universe but my own.

And for right now, this present moment, my universe is surprisingly ok. I’m keeping up with my (almost) daily creative practice. I’ve found a rhythm. I like what I’ve been up to, creatively. I know which parts of my 100 Day Project project will stick with me, and which I may never attempt again. At the same time, on Day 84/100, I’m just about ready to start winding down and anticipating what’s next. A couple of interesting creative ideas are waiting in the wings. I’m intrigued.

As for the rip in my pants, the world did not come to an end. After all, as my friend Susan said, when I told her later, “It’s a good thing you were wearing underwear.”

(*in light of current events, it’s important for me to say this particular church is wayyy out there on the progressive limb. everyone, and i mean everyone, is welcome.)