My Yearly Punctuation Problems, Version 20.12
My license plate says 'DRMRGAL'. I've had it since I turned 16, got my license, and gratefully (though admittedly, not at first) accepted the Ford Tempo that my grandparents were willing to fetch for me. It squealed when I made right turns, at any speed. I gradually learned to enter the high school lot and maneuver to my parking spot using only left turns.
I had my license plate all figured out well before the big day, periodically (aka obsessively) checking the DMV website to see if it was available. At that point, I had only been a "drummer" for three years. Yet, it was the part of my identity that I most wanted to share with my fellow highway acquaintances.
Did you see what I just did there? I put "drummer" in quotations. As in, I had only been a sort of drummer or a so-called or only self-declared drummer.
Today, while pumping gas before a stretch of three piano lessons, the guy at the pump in front of me smiled, took a step in the direction of my car, and asked, "hey - are you a drummer?".
Me: Oh... (stammering a bit, trying to figure out the appropriate verb tense, giving up before the awkward pause becomes more awkward)... yeah. <smile>
Guy: Me too.
Me: Cool! Finally! Someone who knows what my license plate intends to say! (I get a lot of "dreamer gal?!" What does that mean?!?)
Guy: Are you in a band?
Me: (this response is well-rehearsed) Not at the moment. I teach music for a living. The elementary school down the road from here.
Guy: Aww, that must be fun.
Me: Yeah, it is. Do you play in a band around here?
Guy: Yeah. We just played at what used to be JAXX this past Saturday. Mainly rock-n-roll stuff.
Me: Aww, I'm jealous. Sounds fun.
Guy: So, why aren't you playing?
What I said: Oh, you know, my teaching schedule keeps me pretty busy...
What I should have said: Oh, you know, I'm a total coward.
I like teaching. There are days when I love it more than anything and thank my lucky stars that someone pays me (a little) to do it. I like teaching piano lessons. One day I hope to teach piano lessons only because I like it and not because I have to to stay afloat comfortably. But for a part-time job, it's a good one.
Then, there are the days I hate teaching. The days where it's nothing but a ton of work for a return of a lot of headaches, both literally and figuratively. Have you ever heard 30+ eight year olds playing recorder at the same time? Self-serving parents. Whiny kids. Lots of them. About 200 a day, rotating annoying behaviors every 30 minutes. Fed up with 30 minutes of I'm-not-in-the-mood-to-try-today? Good! Here comes 30 minutes of I-can't-get-along-with-any-kid-you-make-me-sit-next-to-and-I-plan-on-constantly-telling-you-about-it. The days where it feels like a triumphant moment if 10 of 30 minutes are spent doing something actually musical and not behavioral-related. All of this while some co-workers and school officials think what I'm teaching is "easy" or "just for fun" even though I, too, give out hundreds of grades and organize lessons and performances for seven grade levels. The days when I come home to emails in my personal inbox begging me to show up and/or write to my congressmen about keeping the arts programs in schools.
So, when I say that my teaching schedule keeps me busy, I'm not lying. But I have time for other hobbies. I'd even call myself a "runner" (three marathons later, and I'm still using punctuation!), a "writer", and I have a happy home life, which, unless you're apathetic or a princess, takes time and effort.
Back to the gas station. I'm kinda shy. I don't always "perform" well (there's a theme...stay with me) in impromptu conversations. I'm not impolite, but I don't easily slide into small-talk banter with strangers. I'm not "that girl" at a party who can talk to just anyone. It's how I knew there was that "something" there with Matt the first time we really talked; I was immediately comfortable and able to jump into conversation as though we'd known each other for a long time. I was even funny (aka goofy and self-ridiculing, both relatives of funny). Maybe I meant "funny"(?)
As soon as this dude said he was a drummer, I was back in college. Comfortable. My happy place. Able to speak for myself. Not that we spoke for more than five minutes, but I "got" him. Quickly. He had that "I don't take life very seriously, but I try hard at what I like doing" thing going on. Having lived in northern VA (aka - the next-to-Washington-DC-hub of seriousness) for twelve years, this is always a relief, and I have grown to understand that these things do not happen very often. He's a carpenter by day, drummer by night. He has absolutely nothing to do with the federal government.
So, I'm a teacher who dreams (true story) of being in a cool, eclectic cover band. I don't have pie-in-the-sky aspirations of recording my own original album, sleeping on tour busses, or signing autographs in some green room at Madison Square Gardens. I'm realistic. I like teaching, remember? But I'm only a drummer in quotations without a starting point. The whole thing seems somehow intangible. I'm too old, or not cool enough or something.
I majored in percussion. I was pretty good at it. I worked extremely hard at it. More important than that, I was ecstatically happy doing it. I had the best and dearest of friends who were there for me when I didn't even deserve it. So, why have I let the daily grind of necessities and routine get in the way of that? Sure, I'm not as confident behind a drumset, but I really haven't given it a fair chance. (See: Paully Erickson for details. Paully, if you're reading this, I'm still working on that samba. Really. I'm going at a rate of 0.2 measures a week. By 2020, it'll be perfect.) I am lacking the confidence to just start. I'm somehow confident to get behind a marathon starting line, but not an instrument that I actually have professional training to play. The logic doesn't add up. Unless it's the classic, "that was then, this is now" syndrome. Ironic....the Monkees were the reason I got my first tambourine as a kid.
When I got that license plate, I remember telling my friends, "I'm keeping it 'til I'm 90". Partially because I knew someone else who wanted it should I get rid of it and I'm selfish, and partially because I couldn't imagine a day that I would not identify with its label. But at gas stations, or stoplights with windows rolled down, or in parking lots, or in certain circles of people, my history with kevlar drumheads, malletech mallets, Zildjian splash cymbals, crude (and dumb) jokes, ridiculous party pranks, Stevens grip blisters, that feeling of being immersed in powerful unison and precisely calculated sounds....I hide behind the here and now, the schedule, the multitude of reasons why it all requires quotes. Funny thing about quotes...you're imitating something else that inspires you.
So, I'll drive on, as my license plate either patiently awaits change or silently mocks me. I'll add this dude's business card to the pile of connections I made while being a wannabe.
I don't even have a business card. They're too small for the punctuation I require.
I had my license plate all figured out well before the big day, periodically (aka obsessively) checking the DMV website to see if it was available. At that point, I had only been a "drummer" for three years. Yet, it was the part of my identity that I most wanted to share with my fellow highway acquaintances.
Did you see what I just did there? I put "drummer" in quotations. As in, I had only been a sort of drummer or a so-called or only self-declared drummer.
Today, while pumping gas before a stretch of three piano lessons, the guy at the pump in front of me smiled, took a step in the direction of my car, and asked, "hey - are you a drummer?".
Me: Oh... (stammering a bit, trying to figure out the appropriate verb tense, giving up before the awkward pause becomes more awkward)... yeah. <smile>
Guy: Me too.
Me: Cool! Finally! Someone who knows what my license plate intends to say! (I get a lot of "dreamer gal?!" What does that mean?!?)
Guy: Are you in a band?
Me: (this response is well-rehearsed) Not at the moment. I teach music for a living. The elementary school down the road from here.
Guy: Aww, that must be fun.
Me: Yeah, it is. Do you play in a band around here?
Guy: Yeah. We just played at what used to be JAXX this past Saturday. Mainly rock-n-roll stuff.
Me: Aww, I'm jealous. Sounds fun.
Guy: So, why aren't you playing?
What I said: Oh, you know, my teaching schedule keeps me pretty busy...
What I should have said: Oh, you know, I'm a total coward.
I like teaching. There are days when I love it more than anything and thank my lucky stars that someone pays me (a little) to do it. I like teaching piano lessons. One day I hope to teach piano lessons only because I like it and not because I have to to stay afloat comfortably. But for a part-time job, it's a good one.
Then, there are the days I hate teaching. The days where it's nothing but a ton of work for a return of a lot of headaches, both literally and figuratively. Have you ever heard 30+ eight year olds playing recorder at the same time? Self-serving parents. Whiny kids. Lots of them. About 200 a day, rotating annoying behaviors every 30 minutes. Fed up with 30 minutes of I'm-not-in-the-mood-to-try-today? Good! Here comes 30 minutes of I-can't-get-along-with-any-kid-you-make-me-sit-next-to-and-I-plan-on-constantly-telling-you-about-it. The days where it feels like a triumphant moment if 10 of 30 minutes are spent doing something actually musical and not behavioral-related. All of this while some co-workers and school officials think what I'm teaching is "easy" or "just for fun" even though I, too, give out hundreds of grades and organize lessons and performances for seven grade levels. The days when I come home to emails in my personal inbox begging me to show up and/or write to my congressmen about keeping the arts programs in schools.
So, when I say that my teaching schedule keeps me busy, I'm not lying. But I have time for other hobbies. I'd even call myself a "runner" (three marathons later, and I'm still using punctuation!), a "writer", and I have a happy home life, which, unless you're apathetic or a princess, takes time and effort.
Back to the gas station. I'm kinda shy. I don't always "perform" well (there's a theme...stay with me) in impromptu conversations. I'm not impolite, but I don't easily slide into small-talk banter with strangers. I'm not "that girl" at a party who can talk to just anyone. It's how I knew there was that "something" there with Matt the first time we really talked; I was immediately comfortable and able to jump into conversation as though we'd known each other for a long time. I was even funny (aka goofy and self-ridiculing, both relatives of funny). Maybe I meant "funny"(?)
As soon as this dude said he was a drummer, I was back in college. Comfortable. My happy place. Able to speak for myself. Not that we spoke for more than five minutes, but I "got" him. Quickly. He had that "I don't take life very seriously, but I try hard at what I like doing" thing going on. Having lived in northern VA (aka - the next-to-Washington-DC-hub of seriousness) for twelve years, this is always a relief, and I have grown to understand that these things do not happen very often. He's a carpenter by day, drummer by night. He has absolutely nothing to do with the federal government.
So, I'm a teacher who dreams (true story) of being in a cool, eclectic cover band. I don't have pie-in-the-sky aspirations of recording my own original album, sleeping on tour busses, or signing autographs in some green room at Madison Square Gardens. I'm realistic. I like teaching, remember? But I'm only a drummer in quotations without a starting point. The whole thing seems somehow intangible. I'm too old, or not cool enough or something.
I majored in percussion. I was pretty good at it. I worked extremely hard at it. More important than that, I was ecstatically happy doing it. I had the best and dearest of friends who were there for me when I didn't even deserve it. So, why have I let the daily grind of necessities and routine get in the way of that? Sure, I'm not as confident behind a drumset, but I really haven't given it a fair chance. (See: Paully Erickson for details. Paully, if you're reading this, I'm still working on that samba. Really. I'm going at a rate of 0.2 measures a week. By 2020, it'll be perfect.) I am lacking the confidence to just start. I'm somehow confident to get behind a marathon starting line, but not an instrument that I actually have professional training to play. The logic doesn't add up. Unless it's the classic, "that was then, this is now" syndrome. Ironic....the Monkees were the reason I got my first tambourine as a kid.
When I got that license plate, I remember telling my friends, "I'm keeping it 'til I'm 90". Partially because I knew someone else who wanted it should I get rid of it and I'm selfish, and partially because I couldn't imagine a day that I would not identify with its label. But at gas stations, or stoplights with windows rolled down, or in parking lots, or in certain circles of people, my history with kevlar drumheads, malletech mallets, Zildjian splash cymbals, crude (and dumb) jokes, ridiculous party pranks, Stevens grip blisters, that feeling of being immersed in powerful unison and precisely calculated sounds....I hide behind the here and now, the schedule, the multitude of reasons why it all requires quotes. Funny thing about quotes...you're imitating something else that inspires you.
So, I'll drive on, as my license plate either patiently awaits change or silently mocks me. I'll add this dude's business card to the pile of connections I made while being a wannabe.
I don't even have a business card. They're too small for the punctuation I require.
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