There are more guitars in my house than people, so it’s of mild surprise that I don’t play the instrument despite the shrines my mom and dad have set up around the house. I’ve dabbled with the violin, had a seven year tumultuous affair with the piano, yet somehow my desire to play the guitar never peaked. Like a child growing up with too much junk food, I’d been turned off to the instrument, content with listening to others play. When I was in high school, I would return home to hear my parents playing guitar together upstairs, my dad on his white electric guitar and my mom strumming on acoustic, each “singing.” Every once and a while my dad would break out a pair of random bongos he owned. “They’re totally sober, I swear,” I told my friends.
Now that I’m older, I’m sick of seeing the guitars slouched in their holders, shining and intimidating none-the-less. I am going to conquer this instrument, I will master “Stairway to Heaven” even if it takes me a whole year.
I could save money and learn from my parents, brother, or various friends who play the guitar; however, I find that getting out of the house and being in the “teacher/student” environment makes me work harder. If I know I’m paying money for the lesson, there is no way I’m wasting that time. I’m ready for the calluses on the pads of my fingers, and my remarkably small hands are going to have to stretch to make those chords. Who knows, maybe with a little bit more commitment, experience and maturity, my involvement with the guitar will resemble a healthy relationship as opposed to a summer fling.
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