Once upon a time, I made a promise to myself. I would never be one of those women thrust into the madness of a midlife crisis. I thought I had it all figured out.
Then a few summers ago, it hit me out of nowhere. I dropped 75 cents into the slot of a newspaper machine. I pulled a USA Today out from the stacks. And there appeared Tom Petty of Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. I couldn't believe it! The guy on the cover resembled nothing of the skinny kid who stopped me dead in my tracks, singing Refugee on Saturday Night Live. He looked great, but obviously time had passed. Petty's face and figure were a little fuller. His hair was slightly shorter and not so blonde. Nonetheless, he was smiling and aging with all the grace a fifty-something year old man can muster.
What's ol' Tom up to these days? Where's he been? I thought to myself.
However, by the time I'd finished reading the article, I was pretty shaken up and asking myself a different question ...
Where had I been?
Because Tom had been a busy bee: writing songs, recording, and touring extensively.
Suddenly, I became a woman determined to catch up. I combed Walmart and Target and scooped up any Tom Petty music I could find. I mined Edward McKay's for secondhand CD's and landed Petty gold. I shamelessly bummed discs off friends like an addict in search of a Petty fix. I listened upstairs, downstairs, inside, and outside to nothing but Tom Petty for a solid week. And when Monday morning came around, I felt both exhilarated and exhausted, while my poor family scrounged around for clean undies and any morsel of food they could find. But I was caught up and now an expert on Tom Petty.
All was right with the world!
That was until I spotted my lonely guitar standing upright in a corner and calling out to me. How long had it been since I last picked it up? I'd been so busy balancing work, family, grad school, and a new career that I hadn't even thought about music. Now all I could think about was playing my immortal beloved guitar again ...
Some time later, I was cleaning out my insanely disorganized purse. I pulled a business card out from all the chaos. My friend Jeff had given me that card a while ago, knowing I wanted to take lessons. Jeff assured me the instructor was a wizard on guitar and word on the street was the guy could resurrect all dead and buried guitar dreams.
Just give him a call, my friend said encouragingly.
I sure pitied anyone who'd have to teach me guitar again. I could barely put a song together. In a nutshell, I was a mess and as rusty as a tin man left out in the rain. Nevertheless, I picked up the phone and forced myself to inquire about lessons. I left a silly long-winded message, babbling on about my serious motivation to play.
What a dweeb!
I secretly hoped the Wizard would ignore my call. I envisioned a guitar guru overflowing with gigs and students. I imagined a smug musician who'd hear my awful guitar playing, roll his eyes, and move onto the next person. However, the Wizard did call me back. He had an opening on Thursday evenings at 6:00.
Darn! That would actually work for me ...
So I went off to see the Wizard every Thursday night, gained some courage, and learned how to play my guitar again. And the Wizard was soon declared the most patient man in Greensboro, temporarily stealing that title away from Saint Thomas, my long-suffering husband.
Several years have passed since I stumbled upon that Tom Petty article and decided to treat myself to some guitar lessons. I'd sure love to tell you that I'm now an ace on guitar and sing like an angel on high. The truth is that I'm a whole lot better than when I started. But no sign of a Bonnie Raitt in sight! Though Tom Petty might say, "You've come a long way baby!"
But somehow I've managed to move through midlife madness without botox, a boob job, and a new BMW.
And so it seems that I have been located and can frequently be found on my front porch singing songs and strumming my guitar.
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