Majorette Dreams

I was always a bit of a performer.

My bed was my stage, and my hairbrush a microphone. I would slip my Cyndi Lauper cassette into the tape player and sing along to "Girls Just Want To Have Fun" while bopping around on my bed.

When my two best friends, Meegan and Christina, took up baton-twirling, how I envied them their shiny, proper batons. All I had was a silly plastic one with streamers coming out the ends. We made up elaborate routines on the large back deck of Christina's house, always ending with a flourish: Christina and Meegan would do cartwheels while I would twirl around and end up down on one knee with my arms extended and my best majorette smile on my face. I never did master the art of cart-wheeling.

A couple months before my 7th birthday, my parents announced a big surprise. They had signed me up for piano lessons!

I wasn't nearly as excited by this as they were. I wanted baton-twirling, not stupid piano lessons. I pouted, I refused, I cried. I behaved like an utter brat. And I went to piano lessons, once a week.

Meegan and Christina continued their twirling for a while but gradually found other interests. I continued piano lessons right up 'til the end of high school, and the only reason I stopped was because I was leaving for college. You all know the rest of the story--obviously, at some point, it began to stick and I no longer had to be dragged, kicking and screaming, to my weekly lessons.

But part of me still wishes I had the ability to toss a baton in the air and not freak out as it comes back down--on my head.