The Discomfort Zone

So, I did a thing. I signed up for piano lessons. At FIFTY. I’m not a first-timer, but it’s been a minute. Here’s a little back story: my mom was a very talented pianist and music teacher. So, obviously I took lessons from her, starting at around age two. Every year she put on a recital, and every year I was in it. For about thirteen years. Then teen angst kicked in, and I quit. Partially out of laziness, and partially because I had been messing up so badly in school that I was killing myself trying to catch up so I could graduate on time. Once I did finally finish high school (yes, on time), I stuck around for a year or so just working and not knowing what I wanted to do with my life. Then I moved across the country to California to start figuring shit out. I left my family, friends, and the piano behind. Years later I began to regret dropping music lessons, but unfortunately I learned everything by ear; meaning I could listen to my mom play and repeat, but never really learned to read music. Oops. 

A few years after my mom passed away, with my father’s urging, we had her piano shipped from New York City to Charlotte. My kid started tinkering around with it immediately. At first she used an app, but eventually we signed her up for lessons. I can’t tell you how much I love listening to her practice piano and sing, and filling our house with music. Attending her recitals, watching her up on stage and seeing all her hard work pay off is so gratifying. It’s also inspiring. I started having fantasies about playing songs on the piano while she sings, and even just thinking about it brings tears to my eyes. I told her about my daydreams and she was so encouraging, but something was holding me back. Starting up again with a skill that wasn’t exactly new, but definitely rusty as hell made me insanely nervous. Finally I admitted to my husband what I was thinking, and he was so supportive. I had a whole speech prepared and everything, but it turned out I didn’t need it. My family was on board. So I texted my daughter’s teacher and asked if she was accepting new students. Uh oh, she totally was. I told her my goal was to finally learn to read music, and perform in the winter recital. She was all for it. She even had two back to back time slots for my daughter and me on Thursday nights. Well, well, well. I guess I was fresh out of excuses. We picked a start date, and beginning next week going to piano won’t just be me dropping her off and running errands. I’m staying. I’m learning. Holy crap.

Now that I’ve made it official, and decided to pursue this thing that I’ve been pondering forever, I’m kind of freaking out. Why? Something about stepping so far outside my comfort zone makes me itchy. Like literally, I’m scratching my wrists just writing this. What’s the big deal? Here’s where Beverly takes her cue (doesn’t everyone’s anxiety have a name?) She says helpful things like: you’re too old, your memory is shot, you’re going to embarrass yourself, you’re going to embarrass your kid…blah blah blah. I mean, me? Taking lessons? Unless you count the occasional new yoga move, I honestly can’t remember the last time I actively attempted to learn something new. While quietly exhilarating, putting yourself out there for public viewing and being vulnerable can be pretty terrifying. 

Gotta admit, starting this blog up again felt the same way. I’m a really private person, and here I am telling everyone what I’m all about, sharing my hopes and dreams, and even using a picture of myself on my website. Not a giraffe, not my kid, but ME. Eek! It makes me feel a little naked. But what’s the alternative? Stagnation? No challenge, no change, no growth? That’s even scarier. You can stand still and feel safe, or you can keep moving forward. Maybe you’re a little shaky while you’re at it, but you’re actually living your life. Taking risks is extra scary when you have anxiety, because you’ve already contemplated every possible negative scenario that could occur. Sometimes I talk myself out of things. Or I procrastinate like a mofo. But when I take the leap and do the scary thing and it works out? Shoo. I am flying high. And it’s good ammunition for next time Beverly opens her big yapper. 

I’m writing about this to get myself psyched, but I’m still pretty nervous. Time to think back to other situations where I’ve entered the discomfort zone and it ended well. I’ve moved across the country twice, and experienced soul-shaking culture shock both times. And both times I worried I made a huge mistake. Worked out fine. I went back to college to finally finish my degree at age thirty. A science degree no less. What was I thinking? Worked out fine. How about the time I joined a moms club full of strangers when I was a scared, lonely new mom in an unfamiliar city? Gasp! Worked out fine. I even signed up for a 5K one time even though I hate running. Like, even as a kid I didn’t want to play tag. But I just wanted to see if I could do it. Guess what? Worked out fine. Feel the fear and do it anyway, they say. Easier said than done sometimes, for sure. Might not always work out. True. But, fuck it. It’s worth a shot. Even if I can only belt out Mary Had A Little Lamb, I think my mom would be proud.