I actually never thought about band being terrible in anyway until 7th grade. I play the trombone, rather apathetically, merely because we had the instrument in the house, money was an issue, and as long as my brothers were home, I wouldn't have any need for private lessons.

That was when my dad had a job, my brothers were still milling through high school or college, and the trombone was a wonder. Don't get me wrong, I love my instrument. I'm one of very few girls who play it, but I'm not very suited for it. Still, if I can get a good sound out of a horn made for a big burly man, I'm happy. So I do that.

But the tedium of dressing up for a concert drove me to the edge. We were obligated to wear white shirts, black pants, and black shoes. The first few times I tried this, my shirt was from some other end of hell I'd never heard of before — short and frilly. My pants were velvet or velour. Everyone else had sleek pants and shirts and while I always felt awkward wearing what I did, I never made any fuss about it because what could you do? To add to that, my parents never came to band concerts. It was me showing off to a group of people I'd never heard of. Then, our concerts became more formal. High school ushered in a period of my life in too-short uniform pants and heavy jackets. I walked out of the changing room today to face my best friend's mom and I very bluntly told her that my uniform was "the most difficult thing I'll ever have the misfortune to wear."

Here's how it looks.

There are long over-all pants, black, where the top comes up to your mid-chest. Apparently, you're supposed to put this on first. After three tries at both concerts, I figured it out. Second is a white shirt, short, that has terrible buttons and a tight neck. This goes on second. Again, I tried under the pants, above the pants, backwards, forwards until it looked like everything else. Lastly is the jacket, very short, meant to make you look taller. Let me tell you something, Mr. Costume Designer — when you're sitting down, no one's going to look at you from behind and say "WOW, YOU ARE A VERY TALL PERSON". Instead, you look like you shrunk your uniform in the washing machine and you're too ashamed to say it. They were recycled from marching season, just like the black shoes most of us wear. The last concert I went to this year, prior to this one, had me wearing my two marching shoes, the laces tied together so I could only toddle up and down. I would have called this martial arts technique "Penguin Style" but the penguins definitely had it better.

But today, I started thinking — today's the last day that I'm going to fool around with looking half-dressed at concerts. I may hate band's rigidity, but I love music — I've always thought myself artistically and musically inclined. So I got to work at untying the shoes. One little knot at a time, my pent-up hatred for concert day wound down.

However, my hate for our sole french horn player will never fade. You can't have everything, I guess.