It's 6:05 - Do You Know Where Your Pod Is?

Hello. I'm Bet, and I'm a pod.

I just thought I'd say that. I haven't in a while.

As all of you know, I am a member in good standing of the B'burg Community Band. Our motto is, "We don't play that well, but we're nice." Or maybe, "We don't play that well, but we're loud. And nice." We are not to be confused with the Sauerkraut Band, of which I'm also a member in good standing, and whose motto is, "We have more fun than our audiences. Because we're often drunker." Which kind of takes the phrase "good standing" out of the equation, because at the end of the night, very few of us are standing well at all.

Anyway, Community Band practices every Wednesday night, right there in B'burg, and I say with all modesty that I have one of the better attendance records amongst the bandsters. And therefore, just about every Wednesday I come home from work, tear around the Poderosa trying to get all my stuff together, and almost immediately hit the road to practice.

Sometimes this is an easy process, because I've been smart enough to have everything - horn, music folder, and accessories - packed neatly away and sitting at the door. But other times it's not so easy. "Oh, shit! My horn's still together! And where's my geeky neckstrap? And my music, geeeeeezus! 'Die Fledermaus' is still in my scanner, and here are these two pieces on the stand, and - hey - what's 'On The Mall' doing laying on the washing machine?"

"Cork grease! Cork grease! And where the hell is my reed case??"

Then, after everything's been packed together and thrown (and I mean that literally, I tend to chuck it right onto the passenger's side when I'm getting in the car) inside, I'll hit the road, generally remembering at the last minute that I need gas, or to go by the bank, or that I haven't eaten all day and I really should get something to feed myself with during the 75-minute trip. That's if I didn't take the time to make myself a nice dose of Orange Crapius before I left the house.

But eventually I'll get going, onto the Betty Bet Bet Inspirational Highway, which leads to a stretch of I-77 North, then back onto the BBBIH. It's quicker that way.

And that's what brings me to the subject of tonight's blog. The driving part.

For there is always, and when I say "always" I mean every single week, without fail, there is always a point where I check myself against time to see if I'm liable to be late, early, or, in those rarest of occasions, on time.

And that checkpoint is, for me, 6:05.

Don't ask me why this is; I do not know. All I know is that a few years ago, as little as 2 or as many as 3, I happened to be driving along to Community Band in podmobile1 and happened to look at the clock. It was 6:05. I remember exactly where I was. I was starting up the beginning of the long incline on I-77. It was sunny and warm.

It wasn't a big thing. I mean, I didn't look at the clock, see a huge lightning bolt, and have the pointing finger of God come down and say, "It Is 6:05 And You Are Here At This Moment In Time." (God always capitalizes, btw.) I just glanced at the clock, saw what time it was, and noticed where I was.

And then for some reason, every single week hence I did the same thing. Watched the clock till 6:05, looked at my surroundings, and knew where I stood in relation to time and getting to practice.

Sometimes, it's good. Being where I was that first night, going up the incline that leads to my exit off I-77, is pretty good. That's not a late night. Sometimes, though, I'll be rounding the steep curve on the BBBIH, or even be past the 45 mph speed trap in G'Lyn when it's 6:05. When that happens, I know I'm set. I could stop for gas in B'burg, or to get a bottle of water for practice, or even just get to the parking lot early enough to read or listen to music.

If it's 6:05 and I'm not on I-77 yet, I'm gonna be late. I don't like that feeling.

I guess the reason I'm telling you this is, well, I'm not sure why, except that I got to thinking a little too much about it last night when I looked at my clock until it was 6:05, and then noticed where I was. (I was about to hit the exit off I-77; I know you were dying to know.)

This is the only area in my life where I do this, that I can think of, anyway. I don't do it any other times I go to B'burg. When I'm going to Mr M's on the weekend, I don't wait for 2:47 to see where I am. I don't look at the clock while folding clothes and say, "It's 7:12 - good time I'm making." In fact, other than the 6:05 thing, time doesn't really mean that much to me.

The only thing that comes even close is the 3:30 Workday Situation, where I know that if I can make it until 3:30pm, I probably won't die before the end of work. I can see light at the end of the tunnel.

And that's it, really. No fancy ending, no big conclusions, no anything. Yall can just think about me next Wednesday at 6:05 and wonder where I am in my journey to Band Practice.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* Hey, Vin Diesel's in a movie where he wears a wig.
* And speaking of Band, last night's practice saw me play our two hardest pieces, back to back, without losing my embouchure at all through either of them. Played them both all the way to the end. No one seemed to be as excited as I was, but boy, was I happy.