Sunday, May 22, 2011

Cliches and Diarrhea Fests

This morning, I filled in for the praise director at church, which meant I had to whip mad piano skillz out of my butt for an hour.

The director/regular piano player was out supporting her husband, who is this Ironman triathelete that does these amazing races that involve running more miles than I can hold up fingers, bicycling, and swimming in the ocean at dawn.

 There is no way in hell anyone is getting me in the ocean at at dawn.  Because everyone knows  (or SHOULD know, I'm telling you nowthat  dawn, and dusk,  is when the nursing sharks come out.

She is just this amazingly supportive wife and is always there to  cheer him on.

My husband doesn't participate in these events and neither do I.

And even if he did,  I am not sure I would go to them and cheer for him because these races begin at some freaking ridiculous hour, like 6 a.m.   Which means, wakey-wakey time would have to be, like, 2 a.m., which is downright OBSCENE.

I honestly think I would just  lie in bed and wait for the text message and/or phone call to arrive with the results.

I would do my best to try to SOUND supportive ~ either with my voice ~ or with a lot of exclamation points, question marks and hearts made out of "less-than signs" and threes.

(Example:  "Honey!~~!!!!!!!  How did the race go???!!!  <3<3<3  I LOVE YOU, my favorite GUY!!!! <3<3<3)

So, I was left to my own devices today, being pretty much the sole musician in the "praise band," and everything.

I usually play the guitar, but that didn't go too well last time (a story for another place and time).   We do have a bass player, but a slew of P&W songs really can't be done with a lone bass player, I don't think.   I could be wrong...

So, it was MOI, on the piano.

Which brings back ten zillion horrific memories of Things That I Have Been in Therapy  for years and years.  Because everyone knows that when a little kid is signed up for piano lessons, it not only includes the lessons.

Oh, hellllllz, no.

It includes Piano Recitals, where the child is scrutinized and graded and required to memorize pieces of music which are NEVER normal songs that a child would be enthusiastic about playing.  They are always stupid songs, like "The Turkey Dance," or "Fugue in Boogie Woogie."

And although some children thrive off of this sort of shit, I did not. It made me ill.

I was a nervous child anyhow, and I had a nervous stomach.  And I did not believe myself to be particularly gifted with playing the piano, and I effed up a lot.  Which did NOTHING for the recital jitters.

So, for weeks before, it would be a diarrhea fest in my bathroom.

So, today, all these feelings came back to me.  However, not only was I PLAYING the piano, I had to sing at the same time.  Which I don't know if you know?  But it sucks monkey is difficult.    And singing is not my strong suit.

I would LIKE to think I was all "Alicia Keys" up there. But I. Am. So. Not.

And to be "sort of" in charge of a "band" is also really horrifying.    Because you're "in charge."  Sort of.  And if there is anything I don't like being, is "in charge."

When I'M in charge on things, it is a bit of a free for all:  As in, everyone for himself.  Just do the best you can, folks...I'm trying to get through this experience without throwing the hell up.

A "real" leader of a band is much more concerned with the "ensemble" in "Are we all together?

In sync?"


On the right beat?"

Are we all singing the right lyrics?

Right notes?"

I just want it to be over.

Because I feel like such a poser.  And a bit in,

"Who is at the piano?"

"Oh, that's the pastor's wife."

"The pastor's wife plays the piano?"


"That's a bit cliche."

"Why yes!  Yes, it is!"

And I vowed to not be cliche when I married a pastor...yet here I am.  

I suppose this is the part where I am supporting my husband in my own way.

I wouldn't get up and drag my ass down to the shark infested beach to cheer him on as he swam, or wave at him as he zoomed past on a bicycle  me... or fling water at him as he trotted past me on the side of the road.

But I know him, and this is what is supportive to him.   Having me there, and POSING as a musician when the "real" musician is away  is important to him.  At least I think it is....

Because I love him, I'll do it.  And just DOING it  and facing my fear  is better than 25 years of therapy...

I'm convinced that these situations are exactly why flasks Xanax was created.

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