15

I find weird things hard. PROMPTuesday #33 asks me just to write something specific about being 15 and somehow my brain can't find 15. Yeesh. Here's what I got, though:

15

I can’t remember 15. I remember a big chunk of time that was 13-16 but to put a pin in 15 is hard, like trying to spear a pea with your fork. Let me see if I can pin it down. I would have been a sophomore, at least in the fall. I turned 16 in January of my sophomore year. So spring of freshman year I was 15. I played trombone in the marching band. I had long hair. I cut off all my long hair and got contacts the summer I was 16, right? The very end of that summer. My freshman school picture involved a black one-piece pantsuit with pegged legs and shoulder pads and primary colored geometric shapes on the asymmetrical bodice. That picture was taken when I was 14, though, October of being 14. I can bet you that I was a terrible trombone player. I never practiced. It was so loud to practice and you have to practice to get better but that means you suck at first and with a trombone by god everyone can hear you suck. A lot. I was learning, though, I did OK. Not great. I played for 4 years and I never grazed great with the back of my hand. I had some fun, though. More fun than I would have in the no-glory clarinet section. I already knew all the people in that section and they were far, far better than I could ever be. 15 was probably spent thinking a lot about how I could be different since being better (the best) just never seemed possible.