With teacher-created videos and interactive lessons, instruction that used to occur in class is now accessed at home, in advance of class. Class becomes the place to work through problems, advance concepts, and engage in collaborative learning.

The more I read about the model, the more I think it could be a great solution to today’s educational woes. And yet, I cannot help but think – isn’t this what instrumental music education has been doing for decades, now?

It’s true, we’ve only been doing it in the analog. We didn’t have fancy online lectures or pre-recorded videos. But, armed with a plastic clarinet and my trusty Standard of Excellence Book 1, I did all my rudimentary musical learning at home, from the comfort of my pink bedroom and with the undying support of Jazz, the family black labrador, who ran out of any room faster than you can say “Rubank” the second I started making my sweet, squawky clarinet music.

The instrumental music education model is essentially a trifold version of the sparkly new, trendily-named “Flipped Classroom” model. In the flipped model, students essentially do their homework at school, and receive their lectures at home. Content is learned at home, so that practice and application take place during school hours, under the watchful and guiding eye of the master teacher. This allows for students to engage meaningfully with the content, working with other students to construct understandings, and all the other warm, fuzzy educational jargon you’d like to add.

But wait — one look at my fifth grade (circa 1998) practice charts will tell you that us “band nerds” have been doing the same thing for years. Instead of learning musical content via YouTube lecture, though, students received weekly  in-school lessons to introduce and explain new concepts like fingerings, keys, time signatures, and rhythms. Then, we were expected to practice and reinforce these basic concepts at home throughout the week. Our homework (to practice) was essentially to learn our content. No, we didn’t watch a lecture video – we terrified our pets (and probably parents) with constant replications of the ideas and sounds we learned during our lesson. Step one, complete.

Step two, “engaging with content making meaning application working together peers constructing understanding [insert other buzzwords as desired]” took place during bi-weekly or tri-weekly band rehearsals. Our teacher was the grand overseer, finding ways for us to engage with the material in the real-world setting of ensemble performance. He or she chose pieces like “Aztec Sunrise” and “Engines of Resistance” for us to take the concepts we had learned at home (like playing softly or the ever-elusive counting eighth notes) and to practice and apply them as a cooperative classroom.

Tucker’s article from EducationNext.org cites specific benefits of flipped classrooms:

After flipping his classroom, Bergmann says he can more easily query individual students, probe for misconceptions around scientific concepts, and clear up incorrect notions.

Any public school band participant knows that the idea of correcting individual misunderstandings is pretty much the cornerstone of any given band rehearsal. Instructions were always tailored toward individual needs – often taking the form of comments such as, “Trombones, stop playing so loudly!” or “For the love of God, Trumpets, don’t rush the eighth notes!” (I’m not a brass hater, but let’s face it – even back then, the trumpets never paid attention).

In the article, Bergman states that, “I now have time to work individually with students. I talk to every student in every classroom every day.”

The story continues on to explain that

traditional classroom interactions are also flipped. Bergmann notes that he now spends more time with struggling students, who no longer give up on homework, but work through challenging problems in class. Advanced students have more freedom to learn independently.

Don’t get me wrong. This is truly great for both Bergmann and his students. But again, these miraculous educational concepts have been long in place by band directors since the early to mid twentieth century. Weekly small-group lessons traditionally group students by skill level, so that advanced students are constantly challenged, while struggling students receive the remediation and review they need without the pressure to perform at the level of more advanced peers. All students are brought together for the cooperative purpose of making music in the large ensemble, so that regardless of skill level, all members feel  a sense of ownership in the product of the band. One-on-one interaction with students occurs on a weekly, if not daily basis.

I think that the Flipped Classroom model of education represents a very forward-thinking and positive step toward a more effective, responsible education system, and I’m genuinely excited to see where it goes as its approaches and techniques continue to be refined. It is important, however, to remember that “school” does not just encompass the core academic subjects of science, mathematics and English. Perhaps if our educators and administrators were more open to analyzing and appreciating the approaches of the arts to the concepts of content-learning and skill-application, we might have realized the successful potential of the Flipped model long ago.

Windchill of negative 1 degree, Fahrenheit. Blowing snow. Oppressive darkness. A warm couch, fleece blanket, and the potential for a Jersey Shore marathon on Netflix.

My “Step, Kick, Spin” class at the gym started in exactly forty-five minutes.

It was so, so tempting not to go. I mean, I practically hate stepping, kicking, spinning, and whatever other loathsome activities my class was sure to include. The wind howled around our back courtyard-slash-cornfield, and I wondered if I could convince myself that we might be in for a Nor’Easter, regardless of the fact I am currently in the Midwest.

Maybe I should just start class on Thursday. I mean, no one really expects us to venture to the gym when it’s this cold out, right? And I mean, it is the first class. That’s like a freebie. We’ll probably just go over the syllabus anyway.

And then, the nagging little part of my brain, the one I sort of hate to acknowledge, reminded me that you don’t get a syllabus in an aerobics class at the gym. And that if I really want to drop actual pounds, that has to include gym-ing, not just vegetable-eating. 

With tears in my eyes, I waved a solemn farewell to my futon and fleece blanket, promised my Xbox I would return, and trudged into the cold, sneakers in hand, with the most grudging expression I could muster. I would go to the gym, but I would not enjoy it.

The gym was pleasantly warm. And bright. And full of sweaty people working hard, which always makes me want to work hard, too. My class instructor was a peppy, tan girl with a cool headband and an affinity for upbeat remixes of Top 40 songs with seamless transitions. It’s true, I really appreciate a consistent tempo. And then I saw two of my friends, nervously clutching water bottles, unsure of what they were in for, just like me and I realized, Shit, this is going to be fun.

And it was. I mean, as fun as stepping onto and off of a plastic box for fifty minutes can be. We mixed it up by sometimes stepping up diagonally, or stomping, or doing cute little step-kick combinations. I couldn’t hear a single word the Step Aerobics Barbie shouted over her headset, but she was easy enough to follow, and a distinct background in marching band means I have no choice but to stay in time with the music, so it’s not like I could get off the beat, even if I wanted to. Which was enticing, thirty minutes and two burning thighs later.

After some ab work and a quick stretch, we were bid farewell with a promise of kickboxing during Thursday’s class. On the way out, I passed a group of Aerobics Barbie-wannabes, and was privileged to overhear a part of their conversation: “I mean, seriously? Forget water. I need a beer and a cigarette.”

And with that, I knew I’d done the right thing. Healthy living for the win. 

It’s funny, because sometimes, I feel like such an adult. Not just like an adult, but like I am the fucking boss at being an adult.

Like when I wake up four days in a row, on time, before 9 a.m. Or creating Excel spreadsheets with my daily itineraries and to-do lists for the next week. Or showing up to class and being the only one who took notes on the reading, and participate in a thoughtful and provocative discussion on gender roles in the Middle Ages. Or when I spend two hours making gluten-free vegetarian lasagna and then freezing it in separate Tupperware containers to use for portable lunches all month long. Nevermind the fact that making that crap was the most miserable, tedious, time-consuming meal that I’ve ever labored over, and that I will never ever do it again.

And then there are moments that remind me that in many ways, I’m still just a student, navigating the acceptably bizarre world of college meals and habits. Like when I come home from directing pep band, too tired to heat up another plate of “that vegetable crap,” and resort to eating a box of fishsticks with ranch dressing, because the ranch dressing looked kind of like tartar sauce, and we were out of tartar sauce. To be fair, they were actually “fish tenders.” The ranch wasn’t a great choice, though. Or when, at the end of a long day, my roommates and I just collapse in the living room and watch Disney’s Aladdin on VHS so we can argue about whether or not one of the voice actors subliminally whispers to “take off your clothes.” Or taking a forty-two minute nap in between classes, because it’s cold out and my bed’s warm and if I hurry, I can just squeeze it in.

I’m walking both sides of the line, figuring out how to “get it done” when it comes to school, “keep it up” when it comes to life. And at least this week, I did it like a boss.

I’m not even what I would consider to be religious. I don’t really believe in a higher power; natural disasters happen because we screwed up the environment, economic disasters happen because we got greedy, personal disasters happen because… well, sometimes, shit just happens. Bad things happen to good people all the time. Things happen because either our choices caused them, or because of the second law of thermodynamics. I believe in science, and in personal responsibility. It’s not glamorous, and it certainly doesn’t fit the “norm” for the religiously conservative Midwest where I currently attend school.

And yet, all atheism aside, I really enjoy going to church. Probably not all churches, but in particular, I like going to the UCC. Because when you distill it down to its absolute purest intentions, taking away the “He” and “God” and “Christ said this or that,” worship is really just about being a good person. Living a good life, helping others, spreading happiness, and trying to right the wrongs of the world in any little way we can. That’s super inspiring, isn’t it? Not necessarily because a really old book said so, or because I believe I’ve been “called” to do so by some dude in the clouds… just because, that’s the right thing to do. And that’s how I get by when life really sucks. When shit hits the fan, the only thing to do is to suck it up, try to be a good person, and find something, anything, to make a little better.

This semester, the metaphoric shit sort-of hit the fan of my life. I’ve spent the holiday vacation thus far trying to deduce the why: Could I not adjust to living so far from home? Was I avoiding dealing with an aftermath of post-breakup hurt? Did I assume that graduate school would be easy for me, and not require serious concentration? The answer is, I don’t know. I don’t know why I started to slide backward, why I tried to rationalize distracting myself from an overwhelming number of obligations by binging on narcissism each weekend. The result, obviously, was not excellent. While nothing necessarily drastic occurred – I’m still alive, I didn’t fail out of school, I’m not broke or homeless – I earned a GPA that was significantly lower than my personal standard, I disappointed myself and a professor by missing a deadline, and I finished the semester in a caffeine-fueled haze of poor nutrition and abominable sleep habits. I was not my best. And, like a natural disaster, I was the one who caused it.

Which brings me to now. The New Year, gleaming with the untapped promise of resolutions abound, ready and waiting to prove that yet again, we make our own fortune (mostly). I won’t make any sweeping resolutions, general promises to be greater, stronger and awesome-r. But I also won’t dwell on the past. Last year really sort of sucked. I was an average student teacher, I went through a difficult break-up, I had a great escape of a summer on Westcott, and I developed some irresponsible habits as a graduate student. I did do a good job on a lot of things… but it all feels relatively overshadowed by the disappointment I feel over this past semester.

So what I will do is move on. I’ve thought about the past just long enough to determine some things I can improve on, and to learn some lessons about how I need to structure my life if I’m going to start living it like a young adult, instead of a self-pitying college kid. I would urge you to consider doing the same. How can you be your best? How can you, at your best, start improving your world? Our world?

Here’s what I’m feeling.

1. Drink more water. Seriously. Caffeine is just bad, for everything. Replacing it with water might just be the easiest healthy habit I can make. My skin will thank me.
2. Sleep on a regular schedule. I tried this last semester, but I didn’t commit. Weekends, in my mind, didn’t really “count” – so most of them were spent in bed, sleeping off hangovers and half-assing homework assignments while gorging myself on Netflix and frozen food. No more of that shit. 8:30 a.m. (okay, maybe 9) wake-up, every single day.
3. No more hangovers. This one speaks for itself.
4. Prioritize obligations, not just assignments. “Yes, I can be there.” “Sure, I can play that.” “I guess I can find time to add that…” It happens without me even knowing. Just because I have a spare twenty minutes between class and work does not mean I should agree to fill it with something. I need to prioritize my life a whole lot better. School is first: what classes do I need to take? Music is next: what lessons do I have to have? What ensembles will give me the experiences I need? Work is last: when can I work that won’t interfere with my class, lesson and rehearsal schedule? How many hours can I work and still have time for homework and practice?
5. Follow through priorities by keeping a real schedule. Again, I kind-of did this, but with a serious lack of commitment and dedication. I didn’t always write things down. I didn’t always make to-do lists, partly because I was afraid how depressingly long they would look on paper. I have a large, college-ruled planner, and it’s going to be getting some daily use.
6. Look like an adult. This might sound a little vain, but if I’m going to live like an adult, I need to do a better job looking the part, too. I didn’t look like a slob or anything last semester, but there were more than a couple days that I rolled out of bed ten minutes before class, threw on a t-shirt and jeans, and went to class with a ponytail and glasses. No, it’s not required of me to dress business casual, but I think finding a happy medium will go a long way in convincing myself (and anyone else) that I’m here to mean business. I will wear at least a little make-up. I will wear shoes that match my outfit, not just the ones closest to the door. I will pack my lunch for the day, rather than throw a random piece of fruit and a cookie into my purse.
7. Increase exercise. I’m not going to promise myself that I will “run seven miles every single day,” because really, who’s kidding who. I’m not going to go out next weekend and run a half-marathon, burn myself out, and say “Oh well, I tried.” What I will do is sign up for a twice-weekly class at the gym that I enjoy going to… and go every week. I will make an effort to either run or go to the gym on both Saturday and Sunday. And I will make the effort to practice yoga three times a week, instead of just telling myself that playing Xbox is “equally relaxing.”
8. Have time to blog. This doesn’t necessarily mean I’ll blog any more than I did last semester. But having the time to blog, so that I can if I so choose, will mean that I’ve done a good job with the rest of my life.

Here’s to 2012. I won’t hope that it’s better than last year… I’m going to make it better than last year.

There’s no point in trying to recap an entire semester, so I won’t try. Instead, I’ll post some photographic highlights. And by highlights, I mean random things that I took pictures of on my phone throughout the semester.

Cheesin' with Bessy. No, I had not been drinking. And it was foggy. Really.

My new friends in Iowa consider me to be a city-slicker, which makes for amusing discussions. My roommate once asked me if I missed the Statue of Liberty. I tried to explain that I’d only ever seen it once in my life, but it didn’t really matter. For all intents and purposes, yes — I miss it. During my second week here, I went out to dinner with some sisters in the Tau Beta Sigma chapter. Leaving the restaurant, I glanced across the parking lot to the nearby gas station, and was bewildered to see a lone calf, wandering across the grass. I was anxious and concerned about the baby cow, which must have wandered away from a nearby farm, and I couldn’t understand the peals of laughter from my friends as I insisted we call for help. Upon closer inspection, I was embarrassed to realize that the helpless calf was just a random cow statue under the gas station sign. So of course I had my picture taken with it. I’ve since been invited to go cow-tipping, snipe-hunting, and various other non-existent activities. It would appear I’m just as gullible in the Midwest as I am on the East Coast.

"Dirrrty." "Like your mom." "Dude, my mom showers. Unlike your mom."

Living in a small apartment with three other roommates wasn’t always easy. The dishwasher was the most difficult aspect of communal living, as no one was ever sure if the dishes were clean (and looked a little grungy because the dishwasher sucks) or if they were dirty (and looked a little clean because someone pre-rinsed them). To solve our dilemma, and because we had more dishes stacked in the sink than in the cupboard, the whiteboard system was invented. It has since become a running contest to see who can come up with the most clever sexual innuendos while still conveying the general binary of clean or dirty. Hey, it works – the dishes get done. And I learned that “Like a two-dollar-ho after a night in the hot tub” is a synonym for “clean.” Or maybe it means dirty. Either way, I used a fork.

The pink chunks? Salami. It was on sale.

One  thing I learned about being a grad student is that you are busy, all the time. Not like, “Oh gosh, I’m so busy, I have to go to class, then grab coffee with Stacey, then work for a couple hours, then go to the gym.” More like,  ”Holy Christ, I need to make another pot of coffee, finish this paper for my 6pm class, then write another paper for my Tuesday class during my 6pm class, sprint to the library to photocopy tomorrow’s chapter of the textbook that I couldn’t afford to buy, and maybe do a load of laundry because I’ve worn this sweatshirt for three days straight.” My mom got me some nifty Tupperware that have two separate spots for entrees and sides. What I didn’t realize was that, by the end of the semester, financial and time constraints meant that both the entree and side would be the same thing. And that thing would be macaroni and cheese.

It's an electric guitar. Really, I swear.

My favorite experiences this semester were with the marching band and pep bands. As a graduate assistant, I arranged several songs for the band, and even got to try my hand at some drill-writing (that’s my electric guitar at right, which the band formed during their “80s Hair Bands” show). This set took place during “Livin’ on a Prayer.” It really doesn’t get much more epic than that. I also really enjoyed organizing and directing the pep band, which plays at women’s volleyball games during the fall semester. I’ve never cheered so much for a volleyball team! Games were exciting, the students were dedicated musicians, and we had our fair share of memorable games. I’m really excited to direct my very own basketball band next semester (there are two!) and travel to St. Louis over spring break for the Missouri Valley Conference Tournament.

So tonight marks the last day of finals, and I’m just about done. I handed in my twenty-page research paper on women’s participation and gender disparities in military band at 11:43 this morning (it was due at noon). I conducted the end of Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring for my conducting final, butchered my way through my Survey of Music History final (from plainchant to 20th century in one exam? No way) put in ten hours at my public radio job and finished analyzing Beethoven’s First Symphony. I’m exhausted, sleep-deprived, vitamin-deficient and caffeine-drunk, but I’m done, and I’m going home. This past month, I literally pushed myself to the limits of my academic and scheduling capacity, and I never to put myself through that, ever again. I think I learned exactly what I can and cannot handle, and this increased self-awareness means I’m only taking two classes next semester, in conjunction with conducting and clarinet lessons for a total of 9 credit hours. For now, though, the only thing I have to concentrate on is getting home safely. I’ve never driven sixteen hours before (I spent the entire ride out sleeping in the passenger seat of a rental truck), so I booked myself a hotel in Toledo for tomorrow night. Which means I have to put nine hours on the road between now and then.

I've become quite adept at Microsoft Paint this semester.

This time tomorrow, hopefully I’ll be blogging about a wonderful day of travels through America’s heartland. More likely, however, it will be something along the lines of “Indiana sux asdfgfsdf!!11.” Until then, farewell and goodcorn… er, goodnight.

They're baby swallows, which means I begin quoting "Monty Python and The Holy Grail" every time I enter/exit the apartment.

…the enormous pile of bird shit next to our door, however, is not quite as adorable.

And growing larger every day.

School’s going well, and our first football game is tomorrow! It’s weird being on the other side of the band chain-of-command; on the plus side, I don’t have to wear a smothering polyester uniform, but on the other hand, I already miss being up on the podium. We’re actually traveling to Ames, IA for the Iowa State vs. UNI game. I’ve never been to a football game that wasn’t at home, so I’m anticipating quite a different atmosphere (I hear the State fans get rowdy). Photos to follow shortly, I hope.

I’ve started running at night (Cedar Falls is safe, well-lit and scenic… basically, nothing like Syracuse) and taking Zumba classes at the gym twice a week. I’ve been doing pretty good with planning ahead and packing lunches, although by the time I hit Friday night, I’m too worn out to make dinner (tonight = a red pepper and a Bud Light). Welcome to grad school. That’s okay, because OXY is having a Clueless marathon.

After a thirty-minute panic fest where I ran around my apartment looking for the key to unlock my bike from the rack, and right as I was about to give up and go for a scenic drive instead, I found my key (glove compartment), brushed the cobwebs off my bike helmet (top shelf of my closet) and headed out for a good ol’ fashioned ride.

By the way, all those people who told me that Iowa would be “so freaking flat,” were lying through their teeth. The entire area surrounding Cedar Falls is rolling hills, and judging by my purplish-red face and how hard I’m sucking wind, I’m pretty sure there were a few mountains sprinkled in, too. I didn’t get lost, probably because I only took two roads, but I did make it just over 5 miles, and it only took me an hour. I’m pretty sure I could have walked my route faster.

But it’s the thought that counts, I’ll sleep great tonight (or maybe take a nap in about ten minutes from now), and my first day of classes starts tomorrow! Speaking of which, I have exactly one class on Mondays. Being a graduate student is incredible.

A rough approximation of my bike route, thanks to Google Image Search. There were slightly fewer trees and a lot more roadkill, but you get the idea.

“Corn you send me your mailing address?”

“I’d love to corn — oops, come — by for a visit!”

I don’t even mind all the corny jokes (yes, you may groan) that my friends think are a hilarious novelty. It doesn’t matter, because I’m in love… in love with Cedar Falls, Iowa.

Like all romances, I never saw it coming. Fresh off a heartbreak, I didn’t hold high hopes for this new relationship. But like all fairy-tale romances, I was swept off my feet and fell head-over-heels in love with my new life. And it’s about time I share it with my friends and family back home!

Last Saturday, my family and I packed up a rented Budget truck (filling it with furniture, sheet music and boxes from not one, not two but three separate residences) and my dad and I set off on the sixteen hour drive from Central New York to Middle of Nowhere, Iowa. After a major setback getting my car hitched to the back of the truck (we finally succeeded), and slow progress thanks to the 55-mph-speed-limit of the trailer, we realized that in order to arrive to my new apartment before the rental office closed on Sunday, there really was no time to stop Saturday night.

Ready to go at 7am outside a luxurious Super 8 Motel in Illinois.

I napped in between rest stops while my dad plowed through a bucket of chewing tobacco, and somehow we made good enough time that we were able to stop for three hours’ sleep at a Super 8 in Illinois.

The delicious continental breakfast, advertised on the sign out front, featured slices of bread in sandwich baggies, and two(!) different types of cereal. It certainly was a gluten-lover’s dream.

The weather was beautiful as we hit Iowa. The air was fresh, the sky sharp and clear, and the corn bountiful. I couldn’t help but take a picture.

I rode with my hand out the window for a while, until it got splattered with bugs.

We arrived at my apartment complex with time to spare. I signed away my life, er, lease, and greedily took my keys. I clutched a folder explaining all the fabulous amenities the complex has to offer – tanning bed, computer lab, free weekend bar shuttle – a college kid’s dream. But all I cared about was hauling my mattress into my room and passing out.

As it turned out, my mattress was about the only thing that fit in my room. The first-time owner of a queen-sized bed (free, thanks to Craigslist), I discovered exactly how much space is sacrificed for comfortable sleeping quarters. It doesn’t help that my room is approximately the size of a closet. I quickly learned a valuable lesson in what it means to purge “non-essential” possessions. One full dumpster later, I had fit my entire life into twelve cardboard boxes and two Tupperware bins (winter clothes, since those are essentials in both central NY and IA). I did pretty good unpacking most of my clothes and books, then got bored and crammed everything else under the bed for a while.

It looks great when you can't see all the crap I brought with me!

I did find myself falling back on all those “organization” articles I used to collect from magazines.

My closet is now happily stuffed with clear sweater boxes, wire bookshelves and labeled containers, dutifully compartmentalizing my life into quadrants by color, season and function. I couldn’t help but think of Saneaty as I organized, labeled and organized some more!

In this crosssection: athletic shorts up top, socks organized by clear box, summer professional clothes hanging up, books and scores to the right, laundry beneath, and winter clothes stored in a blue bin. And a folding chair for a stepping stool. Phew!

Monday morning I had my first official meeting as a Graduate Assistant for the UNI Athletic Bands. I learned that I get to be responsible for all the fun things – running music sectionals, directing the basketball and volleyball pep bands, conducting a piece on the November Symphonic Band concert – and none of the boring things, like taking attendance or setting up chairs and stands. Honestly; my job could not get any better. That is, unless I got my own office.

Oh wait. I do.

I spent Wednesday running around campus, picking up my official keys, getting my parking pass (I get to park next to the School of Music building! Take that, West Lot!) and setting up my office. Which has two desks (one for Nicki, one for me), a piano, a computer, and printer.

Complete with motivational daily calendar, and selected quotes on the wall.

It sure beats a cubicle.

Wednesday night I did some exploring. Tuesday night I had ventured to downtown Cedar Falls with my dad for the best burrito I’ve had in my entire life. The historic area reminds me of Armory Square, without the ghetto right next door. There are restaurants, a yoga studio, running and cycling stores, a whole foods/farmer’s market, and of course, college town bars… literally everything I could need. I feel spoiled already. Hy-Vee, the town grocery store, makes a pretty good rival to Wegmans. And that’s saying a lot coming from me, a self-proclaimed grocery snob. Hy-Vee is a little pricey, and lacks the fantastic chinese buffet that Wegmans boasts, but I can deal.

Downtown Cedar Falls. Yup, it's adorable.

Which brings me to today! I spent the day in the instrument repair lab (yes, they have an entire lab dedicated to this) blasting Pandora while inventorying instruments and filling out rental forms for Saturday’s marching band check-in. And you know, I was in heaven. After a full day of paperwork and instrument inspection, I treated myself to a pedicure. I got home around 6, settled down with a cold craft beer, a bowl of black bean soup and George R. R. Martin’s A Dance With Dragons.

Cute toes make for happy feet

Three hours and a playlist of country music later (I’m training myself to blend in with the local population), I’ve discovered that I love Sugarland, Jake Owen’s “Barefoot Blue Jean Night” and the UNI Interlude, which blows my mind.

I’ve been in this state for four days and seven hours, and though it doesn’t feel like home, it feels like me. Right here and right now. I’m happy in a way I haven’t been in four or five years. I’m excited, but not scared, I’m anxious but not nervous, and I’m ready to grow. Grow up, move on, and break out. I will go home again, but for now, I’m living as full as I can. To borrow the words of Sugarland,

“And If I promise you that I’ll be back someday,
will you set me free so I can fly away?”

The theme this week at camp is “Under The Big Top,” and today’s Field Day activities included carnival games, circus coloring pages and the opportunity to pie a counselor in the face. Since I had begged not to have to attend this week’s camp sleepover (my last sleep[less]over involved me getting three hours of sleep atop a wooden picnic table in the middle of the woods, after giving up on trying to fall asleep in a 96-degree cabin crammed with fourteen sweaty kindergartners)… I was awarded the privilege of being a pie target.

For the most part, I was happy to oblige. “It’s for the kids, after all,” I said. Clad in a clear garbage bag with a hole cut out for my head, I trudged out to the front field and took my place in the chair of doom, staring down rows of eager campers. They were practically salivating at the chance to “get back” at anyone in a position of authority, let alone the cranky art teacher always yelling at them to pick up their scrap pieces of construction paper before they blow away. I was thankfully joined by two co-counselors, and the three of us taunted our small captors as we waited for the whipped cream to be judiciously piled onto paper plates.

It took only two pies to learn that whipped cream, in fact, burns your eyes. We took a short intermission to raid the poolside lost-and-found, where we “borrowed” three pairs of child-sized goggles for our make-shift personal protective gear. Squinting as the circulation to our brains was slowly cut off by the too-tight elastic, we settled in for forty minutes of constant, sugar-laden punishment. As predicted, the kids had a blast. We didn’t mind too much, either, although we began to sweat heavily under our hi-tech protective trash bags.

As the last camper proudly rubbed a plate of whipped cream in my hair, it began to dawn on us.

“What’s that smell?”

An unpleasantly pungent odor had started to permeate the hair. The sun beat down on us as we realized we were heavily covered in… dairy. We began to imagine what happens when you accidentally leave a milk jug out of the fridge for too long. As the wheels in our brains churned, the panic grew.

“SHIT. WE ARE COVERED IN RANCID MILK!”

It was all we could do not to vomit as we tore off the garbage bags and ran for the locker room showers. I jumped in, clothes and all, and began applying liberal amounts of the crappy hand soap from the wall dispenser. Kids followed us, asking insightful questions.

“Did you get any down your shirt?” “Why does your hair look funny?” “What’s that smell?”

Two showers and one very damp towel later, I smelled like a combination of cheap soap and an unplugged refrigerator. Dripping, I took my place in the line for snack as kids discreetly tried to avoid me. I glumly ate my generic cereal snack, sitting a few feet away from my campers and trying not to think of that episode of “Malcom in the Middle” where the mom tells Dewey to chew his milk.

I’ve since had a real shower, a taco salad from Boom Boom, and a great conversation with a good friend… and the whole being-covered-in-rotten-dairy-product experience seems like a distant memory.

And of course, there are photos on Facebook depicting our bravery and dedication; just be grateful you can’t smell them.

It's for the kids right?