Of stellar work ethics and nightmare recitals

Apparently, there’s something even more terrifying than the notion of kicking the bucket. Studies have revealed that mankind’s most commonly held fear is public speaking, a fate worse than death, really. Of course, if one were to consider the variety of embarrassing symptoms involved — butterflies pollinating in the stomach, twitching of (phantom) limbs, frothing at the mouth, and the like — then you can bet it’s enough of a nightmare to torment people in their sleep.

In my case, I was sleep-deprived for the better part of a week, not because of any imminent speech that wasn’t going to write itself, but because of a looming recital that certainly wasn’t going to perform for itself. Compared to this torturous attempt at artistic refinement, public speaking is a walk in the park. But then again, maybe I just like the sound of my own voice. Either way, agreeing to participate in this recital was the most sadistic joke my free will had played on me for some time.

You know how the brain is a wonderful organ that only seems to stop working at the most inopportune moments? Like in the middle of final exams, during election season, or while playing your recital piece in front of an audience? I guess it wouldn’t have been so bad if I weren’t the most senior of the group. But the fact that I was flaunting my hierarchical superiority by pretending that the pre-performance jitters didn’t faze me at all — well, I was just asking for it. Granted, those past few months at the bottom of the UP food chain is enough to squash anyone’s sense of importance… though I digress. In any case, the facade of detached “coolness” pretty much blew up in my face — expectations were made, and they had to be met.

Famous last words are famous for a reason. They tend to linger in one’s mind after said last words have been uttered, and they’re notoriously designed never to come true. For instance, lines such as, “You can do it!” or “Things will be fine” have a way of completely bypassing one’s internal processing system, leaving individual’s to self-destruct in their wake. I don’t remember much about the actual performance itself (I tend to block out the more traumatic moments of my life), but I do remember a feeling akin to little people throwing a party in my tummy… and taking over motor control in my brain. Hence the reason behind a number of heinous crimes committed throughout the recital: forgetting the mike, forgetting to bow, forgetting the notes, forgetting to breathe — I could go on.

Now, I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again — parents are strange, strange creatures. Watching the fruits of their investment (in terms of time, money and earplugs) royally screwing up in front of their eyes, should be enough to warrant outrage… or at least some semblance of annoyance. I mean, really, nothing can be more terrific than a parent who doesn’t get mad when they have every right to. Besides slightly scaring me, my mother’s consolatory tone and seeming obliviousness to my shame did nothing to ease my guilt.

I’d like to thank my good-hearted yet manipulative teacher, who will always and forever be the reason behind our calloused fingers and forced recital appearances. Without the coercion I suffered under his mentoring, I probably still wouldn’t be able to grasp the enormity of the truth behind “practice makes perfect.” And indeed, it only takes a little extra effort to have the music instantaneously playing of its own accord. Otherwise, everything else would have just been a waste of your time.