February 7, 2007

Not My Swan Song

I was recently outed at my day job. At a gathering of senior employees to talk about budget challenges, my boss announced via a large-screen PowerPoint slide that my position was going to be vacant because of a retirement - mine.

Now it's out: I'm a short-timer. Of course, I'm not really "retiring" in the sense that I'm going to stop working. I'm just leaving one of my jobs - the one that is the least fun.

Most people already knew, but some who had not heard were surprised. I asked a colleague close to my own age if she was considering retiring. "I'm eligible, but why would I?" she said. "What would I do?"

Unlike my friend, I know exactly what I'm going to do. I'm going to go broke trying to write full-time. While I'm driving Keeper and myself into bankruptcy, I'll make the time to do some things that I love. Things that don't involve getting up while it's still dark, putting on pantyhose, or attending PowerPoint presentations that make me want to gouge my eyes out.

One of the things I love is making music. When I proved to have a modicum of talent as a child, my parents dutifully provided piano and violin lessons. Sadly, they were wasted on me. As much as I wanted to play an instrument, I didn't see the connection between practicing and expertise. Oh, all right. I was lazy. My piano teacher was a sweet little Church Lady who forced me to lie each week when I reported my practice time. I lied because I didn't want to disappoint her, although my failure to make any improvement after practicing for 3 hours a day must have driven her mad.

When I entered the fifth grade and switched to a larger school, I joined the orchestra. I played a loaner violin, taking group lessons along with the other poor suckers who arrived at the sing-ups after all the flutes and clarinets had been taken.

I didn't really mind. The flutists and clarinetists were forever dealing with spit in their instruments. They made embarrassing squeaking noises. Well, okay, so did I, but everyone knew that the violin was harder to learn.

Unlike my ill-fated piano lessons, I did actually practice the fiddle. I loved the preparation: removing the delicate instrument from its velvet-lined case (so reminiscent of a coffin), tightening the bow and rubbing rosin on the horsehair, tuning the violin with my little silver pitchpipe, and settling it just so on my shoulder.

It was all so elegant, at least until I started sawing on it. I rosined and sawed for two years, until I entered junior high, which didn't have an orchestra. It did have a band, so my friends with the spit-filled woodwind and brass instruments had longer musical careers than I.

Now that I have the time and a better work ethic, I'm pondering taking music lessons again. We can't afford a piano, but a used violin isn't out of the question. Maybe I'll get out my old guitar, the one I got for my 16th birthday. This is the first time since I started working nearly 20 years ago that I have the time to practice.

The first song I'll learn to play? "Happy Days Are Here Again."