I think the bravest thing someone does sometimes is show up. Not go fight in a war. Not stand up to a bully. Not shoot a bow and arrow through some sort of coronation ring. Nope. Not any of those things that is typically considered a brave thing to do.
I’m talking about showing up to an event. People take one look at you and start sizing you up. You haven’t even opened your mouth yet and you are being judged by every eye in the room. At least all the sober ones. (Let’s be honest. The inebriated ones ain’t gonna remember you after it’s all over.)
I was at a party over the weekend and I felt brave for showing up. I knew the host and a couple other people on the guest list, but the majority of the people on the guest list I did not know. Right before going I had this nervous feeling in the pit of my stomach like the kind of feeling you get if you’re a quiet one like me and sitting in class hoping the teacher doesn’t call on you or the kind of nervous feeling you get before having to give an oral presentation to the class.
Showing up to a party where you don’t know most of the people is in a way, going to battle. You don’t know what these people think of you from how you act to what you say to what you’re wearing. You shouldn’t care what these people think, but there’s always a part of you that will no matter how many parties you’ve been to. Once they’ve met you, it’s all over. You can’t change what they first think of you or go back in time and make them not ever know you.
You may walk away without them remembering you, but you now exist in the world to them and there’s no way to make them think you don’t exist. Even if they forget about the party, meeting you will inevitably come back up in their memory, filed away with all the other fuzzy party memories. It just takes a key to unlock that drawer and once Tinker Bell comes flying out of there, ain’t no way of stopping a mixed up memory from surfacing, like trying to tell the difference between a thimble and a hidden kiss.
Limbo. I always seem to be in limbo. Always. Never fails. Or never takes off? Is that righter? I don’t know. I just know about limbo. I’m like the Tooth Fairy in the DCOM “Toothless.” (DCOM stands for Disney Channel Original Movie for those of you who are wondering.) I’m like the anorexic removing every last grain of white rice from my plate and still thinking there’s too much food to eat. I’m the girl waiting for my crush to text back. I’m the defendant waiting for the verdict. I’m the student waiting to get her exam paper back.
I sometimes wonder if anyone else feels like this and how many. Because there is always someone out there who has felt the same as you no matter how alone you may feel. Yeah, but how many? And what is with my obsession with numbers? Am I autistic? I’m stuck in between caring about numbers and caring about words. I used to care about numbers more than words and then one day I flipped the switch and now I’m all about words and less about numbers.
But where has that gotten me? Limbo! I’m “Tuck Everlasting.” I’m Peter Pan. Actually that’s a whole other issue. You get the picture. Not the whole picture, but you know what I mean. You can pick up what I’m laying down. Who are you anyway? Why am I telling you this? Are you my parents? Friends? Society? I’ve been trying to figure you out for some time too so consider yourself in limbo. Ha!
I think I’m finally over Peter Pan.
She was a nymph alone in the woods perpetually looking for her Peter Pan. When she found him, she was ready to pour all her flying secrets onto him. No Wendy around to give him thimbles nor mermaids to divert his attention. Peter Pan didn’t need them; he needed her.
She’ll be his secret weapon to help him defeat Captain Hook every single time. And there’s nothing a little trust and pixie dust can’t fix. Together they will fight pirates and go on adventures through the woods. They will build a house for the Lost Boys and find them a real mother, not Wendy, one who is not afraid to sing to them and read them bedtime stories and tuck them into bed at night. Her.
She is learning to crawl.
I used to tell people that I have ten years of experience in playing the violin. Now I feel like if anyone asks, I have to tell them none. Not because those ten years never happened—they did. But because it just feels like a lie since I haven’t really played for the past eight years. Eight years feels like an eternity when you’re speaking in playing an instrument terms. Eternity is an awfully long time—just ask Peter Pan.
It makes me scream inside that I’ve neglected to play for that long. But the truth is, I never wanted to make musician my career and I’m not. And because of this, I haven’t played in so long. It’s just been sitting there in its box, bending to the temperature changes and trying not to rot. I bet it sighs all day long while I’m away.
Actually I just remembered it’s not an It. Her name’s Vanessa, after the Carlton. Now that would be what the violin would be good for—an artist just like Vanessa Carlton. The girl is classically trained (at least I think so) and she writes her own songs, plays piano, sings and dances ballet. That is talent. I miss talent like that on the radio. 😦