Playing The Wrong Notes

When Lizard and I were kids we took piano lessons for a couple of years. I only have two memories of those white glossy key days. The first is my memory of our teacher. She was a nice old lady, but I always felt like I needed to hold my breath in her house. It smelled like old perfume, cooked cabbage, and Vaseline lotion. My second memory is of our one and only piano concert. I have no idea how we ended up in this particular concert, but we were on a stage with about 20 other pianos each occupied by two people playing a duet. My teacher must have sent me and Lindsay to the wrong concert rehearsal because as we stared at the sheet of music in front of us, we thought we were reading Hebrew. We didn't know how to read any of the notes, but we didn't dare stand up and tell the conductor that we'd actually run away from home and randomly ended up in the college auditorium. So we faked it. We figured we could just play some random notes and the sound would just blend in with the other pianos. Much to our dismay, the fine tuned ear of the conductor could hear every wrong note from our banging keys. I don't recall what happened after that. But I'm pretty sure we never performed in the concert and we just stuck to ballet classes thereafter.

I don't know why I'm talking about this today. What I really wanted to say is I'm so glad I have Lindsay (and all of my siblings for that matter) in my life. She knows everything about me. The fact that I once shaved my blond mustache, the sad truth that I sometimes wear my pajama bottoms all day, and she's familiar with my quiet insecurities that most people don't know about. Thanks for letting me cry with you today, Lizard and thanks for playing all the wrong notes with me.