Eat. Sleep. March. (And Call Your Mother)

"Eat. Sleep. March." This is the businesslike staccato mantra for the high school band camp where Cosmo recently spent a week. (The parenthetical, parental remark in the title refers to the fact that I didn't once hear from him, not until the buses arrived, late, to bring them home. I didn't worry, really. For one thing, band camp seems to be a time-honored tradition for schools across the country, so it wasn't likely to be a Kamp Krusty, Lord-of-the-Flies type of outfit. There was communication from the band director, whom I know to be a real person and not just a corporate logo. The group wasn't there long enough for me to send brownies and clean underwear in SOS packages that would be confiscated by power-mad counselors. Still, a phone call to his mother--who was dining, meanwhile, on soft boiled eggs and peanut butter toast and talking in full monologues to the dog--would have been appreciated.)

I've spent time away from Cosmo before, from several days to a week at a time. (And to be honest, he's not that fun on the phone, offering little more than monosyllabic responses to my questions unless I ask something specific like, "So, how did you manage to raid the camp fridge while the others were doing team-building activities like Pass the Grapefruit?") Nevertheless, I was surprised (and surprised that I was surprised) at the sight him in the parking lot when I picked him up. He's tall. He's sturdy. Mature. His hair was clean and his legs streaked with dirt, like he'd been doing something besides acting as liaison between the couch and his PS3. When he got in the car, he occupied far more space than I remembered. And he's handsome (though it doesn't count when Mom says it. Must remember not to call him "cute").

He's had long hair for many years. A friend of his parents had mentioned to him several times (usually when said friend had been drinking, but that didn't impair his speech or sincerity) that "chicks dig long hair," an insight gained from his own personal experience. And I must admit, though I wouldn't call myself a chick, I dig long hair as well. Cosmo may be at a turning point, however, for as a band member he must be prepared either to put up his hair so it fits under the hat or to get it cut. The fear of the shock of the new. I understand. When I was in college I once gave a hairdresser carte blanche with my shoulder-length hair and walked out of the salon with my ears and the back of my neck frankly exposed. It took my roommate a while to talk me down from my emotional ledge, longer for me to realize that it does grow. By then I'd gotten used to it, and kept it short for some twenty-odd years.

Oh. The phone thing. Apparently he didn't get service for the duration. Hm. Sounds like something that might happen at Kamp Krusty, but Camp Cedaredge? If they can spell, you'd think they could get phone service.