Another Concert in the Park

My orchestra is performing our annual pops concert in the park Sunday evening in honor of Labor Day. It is always fun and light and airy. While at rehearsal this morning, I sat on stage and liked feeling confident. It was a relief from that nagging feeling of inferiority that grips me on occasion. My years with the philharmonic have done more for my self-esteem and sense of accomplishment than any amount of therapy could have done.

Below is lifted from a post I wrote about year ago, just to demonstrate how far a person can go when they set out to achieve a goal.

I started playing horn when I was just 38, and later the next year I began taking lessons from a very good horn player who just happened to live in my town. We'll call him SS, when we aren't calling him Mr. Non-Observant.

After a few months of lessons, which I approached with great apprehension and nervousness, almost to the point of contracting irritable bowel syndrome, SS suggested that I play in the local philharmonic. Ha. I was such a novice, such a beginner I couldn't always remember the fingerings, depending on how wrecked I was at the time by nerves. But he thought it would be a good idea. He'd suggest it to the conductor for the next time there was an open spot.

The next day, a Saturday (I remember it very clearly because I was stripping wall paper in my daughter's room), SS called to say that they were giving a concert that evening, and their 3rd horn player canceled at the last minute--would I want to play? Would I want to show up cold and sight read at the rehearsal in the afternoon? Would I want to gouge out my eye ball with a spoon?

So, I went. I sight read, I faked what I couldn't play, and I soaked up every single second of sitting on that stage. SS said to show up that evening at 7ish wearing black on the bottom and white on the top. I went home, put on my new Eddie Bauer white sweater and my favorite black pants, and the family went with me back to the auditorium (we play at the high school--very cute--very small town).

I unpacked my horn in the art room that serves as a back stage for the orchestra, and as pulled out my music, surrounded by paper mache cartoon characters, I looked around to see that everyone was wearing black--NOT WHITE! Men in tuxes everywhere--women in various kinds of black dress--WHAT THE HELL! 15 minutes before the down beat, I ran through the lobby, hauled it up the stairs, bullied my way through the balcony, and found Husband. I grabbed his arm. "Run home--huff, huff--rummage through the closet, and find the jacket that goes with these bloody pants--huff, huff--I need them in less than 15 minutes--huff, huff."

The orchestra filed onto the stage in a very disorderly fashion, as orchestras do, snickering at my gleaming white sweater as they passed me as I plastered myself up against the school lockers, trying to become part of the school decor. Mr. Non-Observant was just a little sorry, just a little confused as to how he could have been mistaken. He knew he had to wear a tux, but he thought the women wore white. Mr. Non-Observant didn't really see why I shouldn't just go out on stage as is--who would notice? Who would notice the one person wearing white, the one person who was faking all the hard stuff? Who would notice the one person with both hands gripped around the neck of Mr. Non-Observant in open hostility?

Husband came through just in time. I ran into the art room, ripped off the sweater, threw on the jacket, and quietly in my big-heeled shoes walked out to my chair, just in time for the down beat.

My introduction to the philharmonic, and I haven't missed a chance to play since.