Thursday, December 15, 2016

     At my age, you would think I would be done proving myself. The problem is the person to whom I am trying to prove myself is Me. Me is not very tolerant, patient or charitable. Me is a perfectionist who demands instant success, and when it doesn’t come, Me gets annoyed, even reduced to bitch level. I don’t always like Me. She is too demanding, too intimidating, too relentless. She wakes me up in the middle of the night running riffs through my brain and repeating passages until I think I will smother her with my pillow. Instead, I get up at 4:00 a.m. and write blogs to keep calm.

      Lately, some passages are giving me grief. I practice them over and over, and they just don’t get any better. What do I want to do? Quit, of course. I want to throw up my hands and say, “I’m too old for this. I’ve already proven myself. Who really cares about this?” You guessed it—Me. Me cares. She cares enough to keep nagging at me. She cares enough to know that when someone has potential, they shouldn’t sleep at night if they aren’t reaching it. Where did this Me come from, I ask myself. But I know. She’s Me. 

     My deadline is fast approaching. I have less than four months to get my one-woman show ready to perform at top level. I can’t dilly dally. I can’t afford to waste time or spin my wheels. Every practice session must be productive and focused. All pieces must be memorized and rehearsed so that they are delivered with a velvety touch and leave an impression of perfection. Pretty tall order for such a gradually-shrinking-diva. But Me gets it. Me knows that there is no perfection—only striving toward it. She knows that there is no gain without suffering and setbacks. There is no success without many tiny failures along the ivories. She knows. I hate that she knows because I know what her answer would be to every excuse I make. It’s not easy being Me. Sometimes I wish Me would take a hike. But then again, that’s not what Me does. She knows it, and so do I.