I've always thought of myself as someone who thrived under pressure. I test well, I don't suffer from forgetfulness when I need to remember a formula or equation, I am reliably able to hit the right notes during a performance, even if i do not hit them in rehearsal. I am comfortable in front of crowds of people. Nervousness sharpens my senses, rather than scattering them.
That is, I thought all of this until last Saturday.
I have a very short solo at the end of the marching band show this year. I get four beats, 1.58 seconds, ten notes, and one chance. I have yet to play it correctly at a competition. It didn't bother me the first time, because a key stuck and a spring was out of place and it wasn't my fault. It didn't bother me the second time because I hadn't played the instrument for three days before hand and hadn't had time to warm up. It bothered me last Saturday. I played it correctly what felt like a thousand times that morning in rehearsal. I was so confident that I would play it correctly when it mattered. Then, while performing, I could feel the end of the show racing toward me at breakneck speed, eerily tangible and utterly imminent. And I screwed it up. Again.
I was near tears as we walked off the field. I didn't understand. My director keeps telling me all I have to do is calm down, and I wish it was that simple. Pressure has never been a hindrance to me before. Now it is. It's disconcerting. I wish it was something more concrete that I could fix. Press this key instead of that key. Tongue this note and not that one. Those things I know I could correct, no problem. But something as uncomplicated as "calm down" is like a Rubik's Cube. And I'm not good at Rubik's Cubes.
It seems I can't reason my way out of this one. If I could identify a switch in my brain that causes me to freak out and flip it, I could play the solo perfectly every time. Unfortunately, brains don't generally work that way. If I could make myself believe that each competition mattered less, or that if I hadn't screwed it up we wouldn't have lost by four tenths of a point, or that the solo wasn't as hard, I could pull it off flawlessly. None of that has worked. Usually apathy will impair a performance, but in this case my emotional attachment is definitely my weakness. Knowing that doesn't change it. I get another chance this Saturday. Fingers crossed, toes crossed, eyes crossed, I hope I get it right this time.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Mirror Mirror
A while ago, I walked past a mirror that hadn’t been hung yet. It was sitting kind of slanted, propped up against the wall. I did a double take, looking into that crooked world, in which everything was just tilted enough to be dizzying. Then I wondered: what if the world really was just barely slanted like that, so that everything looked like it was about to fall over but nothing ever did? What if we walked that way, on a crooked floor, sat in crooked chairs eating at slanted tables?
The answer to my what-if was a little disappointing: we wouldn’t notice any difference. We would have no way of knowing that our reality was a little off-balance. If we lived that way, it would be normal. But this train of thought led to a startling realization. We do live that way. We are crooked. And in fact, unless you live smack dab on the North Pole (or 23.5 degrees off of it, I guess) your world is at least a little crooked, too.
But we don’t mind. Most of us go about our lives without the burden of worrying if we are going to topple over suddenly. We are content with our definitions of “up” and “down” and aren’t troubled by the possibility that someone on the other side of the world might have exactly the opposite perception.
And that happens all over the world simultaneously. Someone on the other side of the world goes about his or her business upside-down. But it’s only upside-down to us. When we point “up” and someone on the other side of the world also points “up,” we’re seldom pointing in the same direction. All of a sudden, two of the most solid truths we learn before we can even speak start to lose their reassuring constancy.
I think it’s okay, though. I think up and down can be different everywhere in the world without condemning everyone to lunacy. Maybe once we can wrap our heads around the fact that everyone in the world has a different “up,” we can start wrapping our heads around more complicated subjects, like relationships and quantum physics.
The answer to my what-if was a little disappointing: we wouldn’t notice any difference. We would have no way of knowing that our reality was a little off-balance. If we lived that way, it would be normal. But this train of thought led to a startling realization. We do live that way. We are crooked. And in fact, unless you live smack dab on the North Pole (or 23.5 degrees off of it, I guess) your world is at least a little crooked, too.
But we don’t mind. Most of us go about our lives without the burden of worrying if we are going to topple over suddenly. We are content with our definitions of “up” and “down” and aren’t troubled by the possibility that someone on the other side of the world might have exactly the opposite perception.
And that happens all over the world simultaneously. Someone on the other side of the world goes about his or her business upside-down. But it’s only upside-down to us. When we point “up” and someone on the other side of the world also points “up,” we’re seldom pointing in the same direction. All of a sudden, two of the most solid truths we learn before we can even speak start to lose their reassuring constancy.
I think it’s okay, though. I think up and down can be different everywhere in the world without condemning everyone to lunacy. Maybe once we can wrap our heads around the fact that everyone in the world has a different “up,” we can start wrapping our heads around more complicated subjects, like relationships and quantum physics.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
More Tales From the People Aquarium
Tonight, while I was at work, when it was getting late and business was winding down, a couple of kids to whom I had already sold tickets came back up to the window. "Hey, can I get your number?" One of them asked. His friends started to crack up. I was taken aback.
"My number?" I confirmed.
"Yeah," he said. "They don't think I got swag." Those were his words. I swear.
"Uh, no, sorry," I said. His friends laughed at him, and they retreated around the corner, embarrassed. They stayed there for a long time, and every once in a while one or two heads would poke around the corner, only to catch me watching them. Finally, another scout (who looked to be the youngest of the group) was sent up to the window.
"Hey," he said. "I'm supposed to ask for your number. Just write down something fake." That was exactly what I did. Scribbling a 555 number on a blank ticket, I handed it to him, told him to give it to his friend, that I'd changed my mind. That kid was so happy when he thought he'd gotten my number, I almost felt bad. It didn't help that all his friends were in on it. But, I thought, he was happy, so what difference did it make?
A few minutes later, we closed, and I collected my things and clocked out. As I was headed to my car, I heard, "Yo, this number is fake!" behind me. I was surprised by how vulnerable I felt, without the protection of the big wacko-proof window between me and these kids. They were all younger than me, and none of them was particularly threatening, but I was nervous. I was halfway to my car when the smallest sprang from the curb and intercepted me.
"I know they're all over there acting like a bunch of idiots," he said quietly, standing a little too close to me. "When I'm over here tryin' to actually get your number."
Towering over him, I raised my eyebrows, amused. He was probably a foot shorter than me. "How old are you?" I asked, trying to keep the incredulity from my voice.
"Thirteen," he said.
"I am too old for you," I said with finality, and left. But I waved to them as I drove by.
"My number?" I confirmed.
"Yeah," he said. "They don't think I got swag." Those were his words. I swear.
"Uh, no, sorry," I said. His friends laughed at him, and they retreated around the corner, embarrassed. They stayed there for a long time, and every once in a while one or two heads would poke around the corner, only to catch me watching them. Finally, another scout (who looked to be the youngest of the group) was sent up to the window.
"Hey," he said. "I'm supposed to ask for your number. Just write down something fake." That was exactly what I did. Scribbling a 555 number on a blank ticket, I handed it to him, told him to give it to his friend, that I'd changed my mind. That kid was so happy when he thought he'd gotten my number, I almost felt bad. It didn't help that all his friends were in on it. But, I thought, he was happy, so what difference did it make?
A few minutes later, we closed, and I collected my things and clocked out. As I was headed to my car, I heard, "Yo, this number is fake!" behind me. I was surprised by how vulnerable I felt, without the protection of the big wacko-proof window between me and these kids. They were all younger than me, and none of them was particularly threatening, but I was nervous. I was halfway to my car when the smallest sprang from the curb and intercepted me.
"I know they're all over there acting like a bunch of idiots," he said quietly, standing a little too close to me. "When I'm over here tryin' to actually get your number."
Towering over him, I raised my eyebrows, amused. He was probably a foot shorter than me. "How old are you?" I asked, trying to keep the incredulity from my voice.
"Thirteen," he said.
"I am too old for you," I said with finality, and left. But I waved to them as I drove by.
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