I shouldn't be doing this, sitting here writing this. We leave for the airport soon. Trudy will be back any moment and then I'll be in big trouble...
He was sitting on the stage. His trombone reflected the lights brightly. He was at the far right side, and we could see him well (an unexpected treat for us).
I can hear what you're thinking. You're rolling your eyes. You're waiting for the confession of tears. Maybe you've already closed the window on this message. But wait...
His trombone reflected the stage lights brightly, and its golden reflections contrasted handsomely with his blue shirt and khaki pants. As a bonus, he even had his shirt tucked in and his hair (albeit very long) looked good.
Trudy leaned toward me.
"His socks," she said. "Look at his socks."
She laughed. My jaw dropped, and then I rolled my eyes.
Although we had gone thru the clothing routine the night before, and although he had run over to his mom's to find a shirt and whatnot, evidently that whatnot did not include socks to wear with his outfit. Because there he was on stage, clearly visible to all who would see, with NO SOCKS. And it's not like you couldn't see it, because he was seated, and his nice khaki pants pulled up off his ankles in that position, and there he was with nice pants and nice shoes and BARE ANKLES.
Ok, I exaggerate. In his defense, he did have socks on: short, white sub-ankle running socks. Nice pants, nice shoes, and short white socks — you could just barely see the rim of white around the top of his black shoes.
Ok, I'm still being unfair. In his defense, he says he DID have black socks with him. ... Um, except that he didn't WEAR them.
Nice shoes, nice pants and nice black socks IN HIS LOCKER. At least he wasn't wearing overalls and combat boots, as his father did many years ago. I guess I know how my mother felt then. ... Um, except that in his defense, this wasn't the Austrian Embassy. So maybe I shouldn't be saying this in the first place!
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