Things have not measurably improved since Monday’s shoe incident, I’m sorry to report.
(Read about that here.)
On Tuesday, I could not get my mic to work while teaching my Jazzercise class. Fiddled with the volume, tried a couple changes of battery (no easy task while dancing and queuing the routines), then finally gave up and tried to project my voice over the music like my choral teachers taught me all those years ago.
As the customers were leaving, I apologized again for the lack of mic, only to have one of them candidly tell me: “I never listen to you anyway. I just watch what you do.”
Well, OK then.
I teased her a little (wondered if Basil and Catherine had paid her to say that), then set myself to the task of sorting out the mic.
You guessed it: Someone with more than half a brain would have plugged the thing in.
I don’t know whether to blame my burgeoning calendar or advancing age, but as all the regularly scheduled chaos returns with the change of season, the universe is sending me messages, loud and clear. I’m just not sure how to respond to them.
The latest came yesterday:
I’ve developed a nervous tic on my bottom lip, a steady pulsing that comes and goes for minutes at a time.
I can’t tell you yet if it prefers disco or rock and roll, but suffice it to say, it feels like people five miles away must be able to see it.
All day yesterday, I kept running to the mirror expecting to see an embarrassing aberration, only to find the slightest movement.
Obviously, I need to find a way to put the brakes on somehow, somewhere, before I’m reduced to a distracted, tic-ing puddle in mismatched shoes.
Meanwhile, although I’m not normally known for my ability to accessorize, I’m going to pretend the tic is a fitting complement to the shoe thing and go with it. Wouldn’t you?