Well, can you tell I’m taking guitar lessons? I don’t know if that makes me a masochist, sadist, or both. Fingers hurt like hell (that line in “Summer of ’69” takes on a whole new personal meaning now) but I’m learning. That would be the masochistic part of the equation.
Sadistically, I go to my hubby and the conversation sounds something like this.
“I can almost play ‘Leaving on a Jet Plane!'”
Pluck…strum…strum…strum…wait. Damn. Hold on… Pluck…strum…damn. Wait…. Pluck…strum…pluck… No, hold on. Wait a second…
So then he’s forced to listen to me practicing.
My teacher assures me I’m making progress at a satisfactory rate, and I know he’s right, but I’m also one of those kinds of people who wants patience RIGHT NOW. *LOL*
I’ve always wanted to learn how to play. Took piano and violin when I was a kid, never got more than okay with the piano (can’t sight read worth a damn, but I can play the hell out of something once I had it memorized), only so-so with the violin so it didn’t sound like I was murdering the cat.
But I’m actually digging the guitar. And I can, in all honesty, see the progress. Bonus – I have a story idea I’m working on where one of the characters does play, so my CPA says that means this can count as research.
(I love my job!)