A Day with Cinderella and a Laptop
What is true value? Is it something that you receive or buy, or is it a single moment of joy? If you value something, then it doesn’t matter. Can you measure true value? Value isn’t about how much something costs or how much others envy it. It all depends on the way you feel about that particular thing.
I adjust my feathered hat and examine the stage make-up on my face in the mirror. I’m trying to put my thoughts on things other than how many people are sitting in the audience, but it didn’t help. I feel jittery and a bit panicked.
I can’t believe how many people are running around and laughing. Don’t they feel the butterflies too? Maybe it’s because they don’t realize that they’ll be singing in front of a large audience, or they’ve just done this before and are use to the nerves. I look to Cinderella, who seems sick. Thank goodness I’m not the only one.
I slowly walk over to her, trying not to look panicked. She‘s sitting on the piano bench holding her stomach and slightly rocking back and forth. Immediately, I feel concerned for her and kneel down next to the person who’s already comforting her. I give Cinderella a pat on the back and, before I’m able to say anything, it is announced that the first scene will be preformed in two minutes.
The concern turns straight back into nerves. I get up and start breathing heavily as I walk over to the door. Townspeople start gathering behind me and a few of them notice my panic. They comfort me and tell me that there’s nothing to be afraid of, but I don’t listen because I’m too afraid. With a deep breath, I walk onto the stage’s wing and the townspeople get into their places onstage. I start to pace back and forth. This is not going well.
The overture ends and the introduction begins. The curtain opens. A stage hand pats me on the back and gives me a light push onto the stage. I look out at the audience and am blinded by the stage lights, not being able to see past the second row. With another deep breath, I begin the scene. The first line goes fairly well and the townspeople chime in. I remember to be in character and, for some odd reason, this makes my nerves almost completely go away. I guess it’s because the character is the one acting, and not me. I start to sing again, but this time with confidence.
After the song is over, I try not to smile because that wouldn’t be in character, but I barely contain it. This was so much fun, I can’t believe that I was scared a couple of minutes ago.
I can’t believe how many people are running around and laughing. Don’t they feel the butterflies too? Maybe it’s because they don’t realize that they’ll be singing in front of a large audience, or they’ve just done this before and are use to the nerves. I look to Cinderella, who seems sick. Thank goodness I’m not the only one.
I slowly walk over to her, trying not to look panicked. She‘s sitting on the piano bench holding her stomach and slightly rocking back and forth. Immediately, I feel concerned for her and kneel down next to the person who’s already comforting her. I give Cinderella a pat on the back and, before I’m able to say anything, it is announced that the first scene will be preformed in two minutes.
The concern turns straight back into nerves. I get up and start breathing heavily as I walk over to the door. Townspeople start gathering behind me and a few of them notice my panic. They comfort me and tell me that there’s nothing to be afraid of, but I don’t listen because I’m too afraid. With a deep breath, I walk onto the stage’s wing and the townspeople get into their places onstage. I start to pace back and forth. This is not going well.
The overture ends and the introduction begins. The curtain opens. A stage hand pats me on the back and gives me a light push onto the stage. I look out at the audience and am blinded by the stage lights, not being able to see past the second row. With another deep breath, I begin the scene. The first line goes fairly well and the townspeople chime in. I remember to be in character and, for some odd reason, this makes my nerves almost completely go away. I guess it’s because the character is the one acting, and not me. I start to sing again, but this time with confidence.
After the song is over, I try not to smile because that wouldn’t be in character, but I barely contain it. This was so much fun, I can’t believe that I was scared a couple of minutes ago.
I shiver as I step out of my father’s car and put my hood up. The snow on the ground makes my excitement flourish. I jump over piles of snow and make my way to the door of Circuit City before my dad does. With a toddler-like laugh, I wait for him there. I am very ecstatic, as any eight year old would be at an electronics store.
Finally, my father is at the door. Grabbing his hand, I pull him into the store. I’m surprised when a gust of warm air comes down from above the door and warms us. As we continue to walk in, I take off my coat and mittens. I hand them both to my father, who reluctantly takes them, knowing that I would leave them in the store.
I rush over to the laptop section and eye the fancy looking ones. My father grabs my hand and brings me to the moderately priced ones and I start typing on the keyboards, even though the screens are blank. A salesperson sees us and comes over. He starts talking about the features and prices of each computer.
Finding this boring, I tiptoe my way over to the video games. I stare at the animated people on the screens above my head. I find a station that isn’t being used and begin to play, instantly hooked.
After a little while, my father comes over and tells me to come look. He drags me away from the addicting video game and brings me to the laptops again. He points to one of them and tells me that it’s the one that we were going to get my mother for Christmas.
“It’s perfect!” I shout in excitement.
Finally, my father is at the door. Grabbing his hand, I pull him into the store. I’m surprised when a gust of warm air comes down from above the door and warms us. As we continue to walk in, I take off my coat and mittens. I hand them both to my father, who reluctantly takes them, knowing that I would leave them in the store.
I rush over to the laptop section and eye the fancy looking ones. My father grabs my hand and brings me to the moderately priced ones and I start typing on the keyboards, even though the screens are blank. A salesperson sees us and comes over. He starts talking about the features and prices of each computer.
Finding this boring, I tiptoe my way over to the video games. I stare at the animated people on the screens above my head. I find a station that isn’t being used and begin to play, instantly hooked.
After a little while, my father comes over and tells me to come look. He drags me away from the addicting video game and brings me to the laptops again. He points to one of them and tells me that it’s the one that we were going to get my mother for Christmas.
“It’s perfect!” I shout in excitement.
Each of these instances mean something to me. They are on completely different subjects and the first one is “priceless“ and the second is bought. Cinderella was my first play, which means a lot to me because I love to perform now and I met almost all of my friends doing it. My mother's laptop brings about a lot of good memories because it was a big part of her Christmas, which made it a better one for us as well. They're alike in many ways. They both mean a lot to me because when I remember them, I feel happy. A lot of wonderful memories are attached to them. They are both valuable to me, which makes all of the difference.
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