Raise your hand if you’re sure

If the year were 2003 Ashton Kutcher would have made an appearance at my son’s elementary school Spring concert. If you can call this Spring. Mother Nature is being a real bitch this year.


My 6-year-old son has been looking forward to this performance for weeks. “I’ve got a big show,” he said. That kid was beaming ear to ear. One thing is for sure. This is what life is all about. This is why I quit my job. I would have missed this moment if I had been working.

Somewhere, someone laughed at my optimism. Shortly after the kids took to the stage a foul odor encircled the last two rows. I tried desperately to find a pocket of fresh air. I was on the verge of gagging. My eyes were watering. Then, the stench suddenly dissipated. I gave my mother the what was that? look. She shrugged her shoulders. The music teacher introduced the program and no sooner did her finger touch a key on the piano and the odor returned. I tried to discreetly cover my nose with the sleeve of my jacket. It wasn’t helping. The smell was like acid, eating through the fabric, burning the hair in my nostrils. I am here to watch my son perform. Ignore it. Cherish this memory.

The next song ended and again, the smell was gone. Every time the cameras flashed the odor reappeared. The jingle isn’t “Raise your hand if you’re maybe.” It is not “Raise your hand if you’re almost confident.” Look, I am not perfect. There are days when my deodorant fails me, too, but I admit defeat. Denial isn’t good for anybody. You have to be SURE.

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