To Our Neighbors...

There's a guy who has become rather internet-famous by creating a website about notes he wishes to write to the girls who live above him. It's a little scandalous, so I'm not going to recommend it. But I feel a connection with him, because I owe the girls who live BELOW me a letter - though mine is a letter of apology. So here it is.


Dear Girls Who Live Below Us,

You've had to deal with a lot this year. I mean, we've practiced our major instruments in our rooms for over an hour during the day; we've laughed hysterically in the wee hours of the morning; we've had dance parties that have undoubtedly left you wondering how you managed to reside below a herd of elephants; we've walked on our tile kitchen floor in heels before 7:00 in the morning (over the weekend, no less!); and we've occasionally been known to scream in registers that might deafen dogs who live in Virginia. You've handled it with fortitude, bravery, and admirable patience, and I'm dreadfully sorry that I am personally responsible for annoying you to the point of no return.

Let me explain myself. I am a music ed major - sometimes a regrettable decision, but mostly a good one - which means that I often experiment with playing a variety of instruments that I don't normally play. In fact, our whole apartment has done this in our room before. While taking Instrumental Methods, we played saxophone, violin, bassoon (spare us!), clarinet, flute, oboe, trumpet, and trombone, and you even put up with that. But today I decided to play horn. I really needed to practice here, because I'm not good enough at it to play in the music building. I would have lost all of my dignity, I think, like I almost did while practicing at the high school where I student teach. In self defense, I did conquer the A major and F major scales as well as 7th grade band music, and I was working on the F major scale in thirds when I heard - and felt - you banging a broomstick or a chair or something on your ceiling/our floor.

I seriously contemplated going downstairs and apologizing, baking you cookies, or even just handing you the bag of chocolate chips that I bought just before deciding to give up dessert for Lent. My roommate talked me out of that, which is why they aren't sitting on your kitchen counter right now. Instead, I'm writing you this letter as both an explanation and an apology. Please forgive me, and if I ever learn who you are, I will apologize in person.

Your sincere upstairs neighbor,

Jillian