Thursday, June 24, 2010


Never being a very talented child, I spent the years when I wanted so badly to be in the prestigious group of kids in the grade school band, and as you probably have guessed by the title of this little story, as a percussionist.  In my mind, I was a drummer as talented as any drummer with any rock band at the time.  I would march on the football field, my body straight as an arrow, in perfect rhythm, with that cute little uniform and hat on, eyes straight ahead, taking great pride in my contribution to the music, especially when I had a great solo, smiling, everyone standing up and cheering and whistling!  I loved the cold wind during the winter games, when I could wear those fantastic-looking drummer's gloves with my uniform.  

But, as you have probably guessed from the title of this story, I could not quite make the cut to drummer.  As a matter of fact, the band director tried everything to allow me to have a place because he knew how important that uniform was to my tender psyche.  But when he handed me the triangle and asked me to audition for a place in the mostly-hidden stage band, I could tell by the look on his face that not only was I not talented enough to play the flute, the clarinet, the drums, the trumpet, the tambourine, or the oboe, I was not even good enough to play the triangle.  

By the time that audition was over, I decided enough was enough.  There was no place for me on that football field.  My attempts at cheerleading were a dismal failure, especially when it was discovered my gymnastic talent went no further than being able to do forward rolls.  My arms would not support my body in a handstand or even a cartwheel.  My stint at being the mascot was thwarted when someone grabbed my big mule head and threw me over onto my back on the sidelines, just to see how funny it would look, and it did look funny, I am sure.  

So now I am fifty-three.  I found my talents were pretty much confined to the classroom, so I became the best medical professional I could become, which has come in handy since I have a very accident prone nature.  Just tonight I tripped and landed hard on both knees and yes, I saw triangle-shaped strobes of light behind my eyelids as I sat there on my bloody and bruised knees and cried like a baby. I do not know if it was the pain that made me scream out, or the frustration that not only would I never be a cheerleader or a member of anyone's band, but I probably was not going to even be very good at mastering the role of little old lady with any sort of dignity.  


Magpie said...

Sorry for your thwarted ambitions. Glad you're who you are today, though.

Betsy said...

haha...great minds think alike! Come read my post!

RA said...

Why does any little old lady need to be dignified? Have fun instead, go out and play your triangle (whether real or imagined) and you'll be the best old lady there ever was!
Great TT. :)

PattiKen said...

And since when is a vital woman of fifty three a "little old lady." Oh, please, say it isn't so!

But take heart. Until recently, I have fallen at least once a year. Balance is arguably the least of my talents.

Grandmother said...

It's never to late to play whatever you want! And 53 is just early elderhood!

Baino said...

Ah you're the same age as me. Join me in vowing to grow old disgracefully. And forward rolls are fine! Cartwheels are overrated.