Cringe

What happened? I have no idea.

Yesterday I wrote up every important thing I could think of to explain The Well Trained Mind. Then I edited it and rewrote it. When I was satisfied with the content, I timed it, 10:47, and decided after reading it over and over, that I should rewrite it in more of an outline format. There was plenty of material here to work with, I could easily talk it up, but didn’t want to drone on, so an outline would keep me focused on the key points.

Today I got up in front of the podium, took a deep breath, introduced myself, began my spiel, voice wavering, unaware that the microphone wasn’t picking me up because the pounding hum in my ears and the heat in my face blocked all other input, including my vision apparently, for I could not seem to follow the notes I had in front of me, looked up and down a few times pretending, in my hysterical blindness, to make eye contact, even ad libbed a little and held up my revised and updated volume for a visual aid, asked for questions, none?, good, I’m done, thank you very much. I took my second breath and teetered to my seat.

Dead silence, blank stares, and then, after I had returned to my place and sat down, weak, tentative clapping from our group leader.

It was mercifully short, all of about two minutes. Like reading a grocery list. Underwater.

Okay, so I now have a huge new appreciation of Dick Cheney. Live television, millions of viewers, the presidency at stake, lights, camera, action, controversy, accusations... He never flinched. Old Ironsides, man.

Later, a homeschooling mom came up to me and asked how long it took to complete our schoolwork. I figured we have five hours, the time between dropping off and picking up my youngest from preschool, including lunchtime, to finish all subjects, four days a week, the fifth day being less than half a day with the balance reserved for extracurricular pursuits.

“Really?!”

Silly me, I thought she was marveling at how we could manage to pack so darn much education into such a short time.

“That’s a lot.”

“But we only do four and a half days, that includes their lunch break, it’s shorter than a regular school day, and we don’t even have homework,” I feebly protested.

“Huh,” she snorted and walked away.

I hurried home and in my haste to forget the trauma of the morning, threw myself into my last big hanging-over-my-head unpacking project, transferring all photo albums and miscellaneous memorabilia from raggedy cardboard bankers’ boxes to solid plastic bins.

“Look! It’s Mom’s high school yearbook!”

Open to find a picture of me standing in front of another podium long ago, looking properly humiliated as Sr. Ann Ferry stands next to me, chastising me during an oral report on Robert Schumann and Felix Mendelssohn for the appallingly careless way she felt I was handling my visual aids. They were handwritten pieces of music autographed by the composers for my great grandmother, part of her large collection. In the photo, Sr. Ann is holding them with the absolute tips of her fingers, as if she really didn’t want to touch them at all. It was the one time this poor southern girl could actually understand everything the nun, with her Boston, by way of Quebec, by way of London, by way of Belfast accent was saying without having to ask for clarification. I can see the red burning in my cheeks through the black and white photo. I can still feel the blinding, pounding hum.