In Which My Fingers Become Numb And Calloused

Just before Christmas, Donna and I saw some friends perform in a Christmas-themed variety show. And while we thought the girls sang beautifully and the jokes were funny, the real star of the show was Brian. Or, to be more accurate, Brian's guitar.

As he played, I took notice of the audience taking notice. And not just the girls. The guys too. In fact, I can neither confirm nor deny having a bit of a man-crush on Brian now too. It was in that moment that I decided that thirty-three years, eleven-and-a-half-months was long enough to wait to learn to play the guitar. The very next day I asked Brian how he learned how to play.

As I gazed dreamily into his eyes, he told me how, when he was fourteen, his parents gave him a guitar and a Beatles songbook. In the months that followed he picked his way through Day Tripper, Hey Jude and eventually While My Guitar Gently Weeps. And now Brian is twenty-one and a very, very good guitar player.

So that day I told Donna I was buying a guitar. Or better yet, she could buy one for me for Christmas. And so it was. Christmas morning, there was a guitar under the tree. O, come let us adore it.

It says 'Spectrum' in cursive letters on the neck. I'm no linguist but I'm pretty sure spectrum is the chinese word for balsa wood. Even still, two weeks later, I'm playing The Beatles, John Denver and Johnny Cash. OK, I'm playing three-chord versions of their songs from the internet but still, I'm playing them.

And though Donna is a little tired of me falling asleep curled up with the guitar, she is pretty happy about how strong my fingers seem to be getting.