I Just Wasn't Made for These Times

Way back when I was a wee girl I went to Catholic School.

Our health education textbook was called Fully Alive and it did provide a basic understanding of the mechanics of sexual activity, as well as a thorough explanation that these mechanics were for married, heterosexual adults.  But that's a rant for another day.

Point is, the earlier years were more about personal development, ambitions and values.  My grade one textbook asked me to draw a picture of what I wanted to be when I grew up.  Although I've never been an artist, much less when I was six, my multicoloured pencil crayon scribblings show a pink-haired person with a purple electric guitar surrounded by pyrotechnics and lasers.

I think I was kind of obsessed with Jem and the Holograms at the time, but I, for sure, wanted to be a rock star.

Fast forward.

I never learned to play a purple guitar.  I never dyed my hair pink.

At the age of 9, my friends and I wrote this song, the first verse of which I still remember and could sing, if pressed, after several gratis shots.  We spent half the day choosing outfits and putting on our mothers' makeup, and then had a concert on the back stoop for our parents.  I remember really thinking that, despite the fact that I had a cursory knowledge of how to play the piano and my friends played no instruments at all, we were totally going to make it.  We would be discovered by an agent who just happened to have a flat tire on a back road in rural Canadian Shield Ontario and we'd be signed immediately.  I remember, many years later, finding a diary entry outlining my struggle with the fact that we were going to be famous, but I wasn't really sure about the obligations of fame and how they would conflict with my desire to one day be in a relationship and have a family.  I clearly was wise beyond my years in some ways, but also vividly imaginative in others.

I spent much of the rest of my teen years and young adult life lamenting the fact that I never learned how to play the guitar, despite many New Year's Resolutions pledging otherwise.  I did become a very capable pianist and that has served me well.

When I finally started adulting, my piano skills came in handy.  They opened doors for me when I moved to a small town in northern Ontario.  My electric piano often had food dribbled on it because I would spend more time practising than tending to my activities of daily living.  I melted more than one spatula because I started cooking something and thought I could squeeze in a few minutes of practice while something simmered.  I was the pit band leader for four community musicals, and learned thousands of pages worth of sheet music for the local music festival.  I remember once having a stage pass for the local Fall Fair and thinking "Yes, this is it!  I'm a rock star now!  I have a stage pass!"

Since I've moved away from northern Ontario, I've had the pleasure of being in two bands.  I get to rock and/or roll every week with great musicians and cool people, and sometimes I'm even on a stage.  I tell people I can't come to their party because I have a gig that night and the tiny six-year-old inside of me squirms with glee.

But the rock star life is not all I thought it would be.  It's definitely not stadiums full of cheering fans and pyrotechnics like I thought it would be when I was 6.  It only takes one or two "shows" to empty, seedy bar-rooms to feel disheartened.  More than one person has had "helpful" comments between sets about what we or I could do to make our show better and it makes me wonder what I did wrong to make them feel like they should say something. And even when it's good, it's hard work.  Yesterday, I spent 10 hours driving to a gig, hauling and setting up (that's right, only the rocking-est rockstars get roadies), playing my heart out, tearing down and hauling again, and then driving back.  I drank water all night, had one regrettable shot of rye to celebrate a great show, and still feel like I was hit by a Mack truck today.  Plus I missed my friend's birthday party and had to squelch out of a phone date with a good friend.

So why do I do it?  Because I literally got paid to sing and dance on stage last night.  Because it's awesome to see people shaking their hips and pumping their fists and mouthing the words, and it's awesome to know that I was part of what made that happen.  It's super gratifying to hear the crowd yell out that they want to hear one more song.  I like when strangers shake my hand because they enjoyed what was in their ears all night.  And mostly I do it because I feel like I owe it to that little girl who dreamed of pink hair and purple guitars and pyrotechnics.  I think she'd think I was pretty cool.