Sundays always turn my thoughts to matters of a deeper nature. Like humility. A few recent events have reminded me that I might–might–not be as cool and talented as I thought I was. (I’ll let you decide.)
I went to my first Zumba class at the church last Friday, led by our own lovely, Zumba-certified Monique. She is young and hip and knows how to use her hips. I am not young, nor hip, nor do I know how to use my hips, although they certainly provide plenty of material with which to work. A “pear” like me really should be better at this stuff. (And despite his repeated requests, my husband is stoned if he thinks he’s getting video for the ward facebook page.)
2. Serving as the Ward Relief Society Pianist
“This will be fun!” I naively said after the call was issued. I’ve played the piano since I was young, and though I’m a bit, ahem, “rusty,” hymns are not usually a big problem for me. I was excited to have a reason to dust off these ‘ole fingers and start playing again. And it’s just among my Ya-Yas in RS, right? Surely I wouldn’t get nervous.
Turns out, I do get nervous. Very, very nervous.
The real payoff came today after I played the opening hymn perfectly but missed a few notes on (okay, slaughtered) the closing hymn, essentially skipping over two full measures in my nervousness. I had played the song perfectly this morning at home, and thus my blunders stung all the more. I was determined not to wallow, however, and quickly regained my composure as the meeting ended. Nobody’s even paying attention, I told myself. Just let it go. I left the room feeling proud of my maturity and confidence, painfully earned over twenty years of slaughtering piano pieces in front of church members everywhere . (I knew my lack of talent had a life lesson in it somehow.) However, when several sisters stopped me to pat me on the back and kindly tell me how well I was doing, I knew I was in trouble. People don’t pat good pianists on the back.
Got ’em last month. Right now it’s a prescription for reading only, but my lovely optometrist assured me that
a) my eyes would quickly keep deteriorating until I needed glasses full-time, and
b) I shouldn’t feel bad because, you know, “most people’s eyes start going as they near the big 4-0.” (You can imagine how much better that made me feel.)
If I can’t look pretty, I can at least look smart. (And btw: who needs an eyebrow wax and her roots done? Eww.)
It took a lot of humility (okay, narcissism) to post this less-than-pretty picture, but I figured I may as well end the week on a high note. Besides, I’m banking on everyone writing in and telling me how young, hip, and less than the big 4-0 I look in these old-lady spectacles.*
*As I’ve said before, your praise never, ever needs to be sincere. It just needs to be lavish. I’m not picky.