A Wee Bit of Hysterical Mania

A timeline without any calendar dates: I perused the interwebs, as I am apt to do, and discovered one afternoon the Utah Jazz would be holding national anthem auditions in October. And by perused, I mean I typed “Utah Jazz national anthem auditions” into Google because that is the kind of girl I am. Naturally I decided I needed to head up to downtown Salt Lake City and stand in line at the EnergySolutions Arena with a ton of cute Mormon girls with great singing voices and then, petrified, sing for strangers with a red card.

I hate strangers with red cards.

Photo courtesy of gettyimages.com

The point of the red card was to cut people off who sucked had provided for the judges enough song to make a determination, but naturally it meant nothing. Right. To reiterate, I hate strangers with red cards.

But luckily I wasn’t carded and made it through the entire anthem (all minute and a half of it, which further proves that red card really did mean something — don’t tell me you don’t have time to hear us all sing it because it’s the shortest song ever) and then, wonder upon wonders, I actually got chosen.

Me, little Mary from the block, singing at a basketball game in front of thousands and thousands of people, put up on the Jumbotron for all to see.

The Low Point

First of all, we know how much I do not want to be on the Jumbotron tonight. But then on top of that, I have been blessed with an enormous zit, which you and I both realize will be amplified about a millionfold (give or take a couple thousand), and probably by tonight it will have morphed into a human person because that’s just how my luck goes.

And I was really having a fantastic day till Husband mentioned to me the impending doom of performing in front of thousands of people, with a video camera shoved in my face, and then I became hysterical. Performing always seems like an awesome idea, but the panic attacks always insist otherwise.

Also, I need a haircut.

I’m a Beatle.


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