Just Like You Said It Would Be

My head hangs above the toilet as dry heaves shudder through my body. This is the way a lot of famous musicians started – nervous and playing their first time at a small local bar, right? Except, I don’t want to be famous. I just want to be me.

But I’m not even sure what “being me” means.

The music stops and the echo of light applause rings out from the venue, signaling only one performance left before it’s my turn. I draw in a deep breath, knowing I can’t stay in here all night. I straighten up and tug at the hem of my sweater, first pulling it taut over my belly then yanking the fabric towards my hips, hoping it’ll cover my backside. I hoist up the sagging waistband of my jeans to their proper place. After an hour of trying on outfits yesterday, I regret what I chose for my debut tonight. I feel old, irrelevant, invisible.

The cloying, saccharine scent of the toilet deodorizer drives me out of the stall. My shoes squeak on the sticky floor as I walk out into the main area of the restroom. A trail of graffiti on the walls leads my eyes to spot a small window near the ceiling on the opposite end of the room. Though I know I can’t reach the window’s height, the temptation to sneak out right now overwhelms me – nobody would be the wiser, but that means leaving behind the guitar that I’m still making payments on. Common sense prevails, bound to my commitment only by debt.

Now at the sink, I pause for a moment to loosen up my fingers and hands with stretches. I glance at my wedding ring. Can he make it here in time coming straight from work? Because my time on stage will be 240 seconds or so (well, 274 seconds, to be exact, but who’s counting?), there’s a big chance he may walk in tonight after I’ve finished. I sigh. Looking back, perhaps my decision to play a singular song was a bad idea.

Most musicians at this open mic have three songs in their set, but I insisted on only one, knowing I couldn’t handle three. I feel like whether or not I continue on my music journey hinges on the success or failure of this one song tonight, but maybe I’m putting an awful lot of unreasonable pressure on this sole melody. My plan is to hang on for the four minutes or so to perform, then bolt off stage when I’m finished. No point in lingering around for two more ballads if the audience hates me. But maybe…is there just a tiny possibility they might like what I do? If that would be the case, it’s not a bad thing I guess to “always leave them wanting more.” Somehow, I highly doubt the audience will be left wanting more after I play.

While I’m really hoping my husband will come, it would be an extra nice bonus if our kids would come. I texted each of them last week to let them know I’m going to be doing this; that I’m going to be on stage in front of strangers playing guitar and singing, doing something that a year ago, I couldn’t have fathomed, never having picked up an instrument.

Memories of years of traveling to and from their activities, cheering on their pursuits flood back to me, flipping through my mind like pages of a much loved dog-eared book. I’ve always showed up for them, so they must know the same would mean everything to me. At least, I think they would know. Hoping for support from my kids on my new endeavor now feels a bit selfish on my part, a little like calling in to return a favor of sorts. Do children know that even mothers need encouragement? I shake off the expectation of them setting aside their adult responsibilities on a Wednesday night, fighting traffic and procuring babysitters, rushing to make it for my fleeting spotlight while nursing watered down drinks and picking at baskets of mediocre food.

I wash my hands and let the warm water cascade over my achy fingers, soothing and relaxing their joints. I long to splash cold water on my flushed face and rinse away the mist of perspiration there, but I dare not jeopardize smearing the makeup I painstakingly applied. I reach instead into my pocket for my handkerchief, a leftover habit from bygone days of wiping children’s tears and runny noses. I blot away the beads of sweat, noting soft lines on my face in the mirror. Who are you trying to fool? the woman in the reflection seems to sneer with a judging glare.

The muffled announcement of the next performer filters its way through the walls, finding its way to me. A clock inside my head taunts me with a tick tock, tick tock, reminding me my time is approaching and almost here.

I distract myself from the bile in my throat with a piece of hard candy stowed in my other pocket, and I put it in my mouth, savoring its tartness. Grandma always carried lemon drop candies with her for when she had a tickle in her throat. I take a lesson from her, sucking on the candy, hoping it will help my voice somehow, but what if everyone out there hates my voice anyway? What if they hate the song I chose?

I enter into a debate with myself, trying to calm the anxiety of the terrified little girl inside me.

—  What if I forget the lyrics?

You won’t forget them. You’ve practiced this song every single day multiple times over several months…you’ve even sung it in the shower and in the car. You could sing it in your sleep.

—  What if my guitar’s not in tune?

You tuned up before you left and when you got here, remember?

—  What if I break a string?

Doubtful. You’re playing one slow and quiet song with new strings, you have an extra set in your bag, and besides, the house band likely has a guitar you can borrow. Are you really going to lay out every unlikely scenario to sabotage yourself before you even start? Any other excuses?

—  Yes…what if I trip and fall walking up to the stage?

I pause before answering my own inquiry, cringing at my predisposition to clumsiness.

You’re on your own, kid.

Fair enough, I decide. I can’t control everything, but I do give a directive to myself: don’t trip going up the stairs!

The musician out there now is really shredding on guitar. My heart pounds and flutters in my chest while my stomach lurches. This is the act that me and folksy song choice on my acoustic get to follow – this insane, no holds barred talented guitar solo eliciting deserved cheers from the small weekday crowd. My shoulders droop in defeat.

Only a total idiot would make a choice to be this vulnerable, to take such a risk of rejection, to expose themselves to great potential humiliation. You’re a fraud. You’re no musician, and everyone is going to find out that fact tonight.

I look at myself in the mirror again, harsh overhead lighting casting its sallow tone on me. I lift my left hand up and look at the calluses on my fingertips. I was so proud when that thick skin first formed, the fruit of much labor, my small badges of honor. Knowing I won’t believe it, I still attempt to convince myself that I have just as much right to be here as anyone else, that I’ve worked hard to get to this point.

Breathe. You can do this.

I race out of the bathroom to avoid anymore arguments with myself. I throw my shoulders back and tilt my chin up while avoiding eye contact with anyone I pass, lest their gaze reduce me to crumpling in a heap of fear. My name is announced just as I reach the stage, and as my trembling hands struggle to hold my guitar, I take courage that at least I didn’t trip and fall on my way onto the stage. I pop my head through the thick tapestry woven strap to avoid dropping my instrument. Though I intended to perform standing, my legs wobble and threaten to buckle, so I opt to play seated on a tall armless chair positioned a bit off center on the platform. The stage lights blind the audience to me, and I’m grateful. I determine at this point, not knowing who’s here and who isn’t here is for the best; it will only serve as a distraction to me. I inhale a deep shaky breath to steel myself, and exhale a long cleansing breath. Muscle memory overtakes my fretting hand, forming the C chord shape, while my opposite hand moves in a downward strumming stroke.

Let’s do this.