Tuesday, February 25, 2014

There is Always Room for Cell-o!

Right now I will blame this on pregnancy, but I am a crier.  Doesn't matter the emotion, happy, sad, frustrated, angry, confused-tears are running down my face.  I'll also blame this fact for the reason I don't wear makeup (but in reality, that is just because I'm lazy).
 
I had to avoid the Olympics this year because any displays of great sportsmanship, or a tough loss, will cause my throat to bubble uncomfortably.  Not to mention all those sappy JOHNSON'S Baby commercials, "You're Doing OK Mom."

 
 
I bring this up because I've discovered the newest way to have my, if existent, mascara smudging my eyes.  But first, I have to share a little story.
 
When I was in the fourth grade, each student picked a fine art-music (orchestra or choir), art classes, etc.  I desperately wanted to play the cello but was too small.  I was fitted for a violin and sent along my way.  
 
I was horrible at it.  No matter of practicing would have ever made it even remotely appropriate to play beyond the safety of my closed bedroom door.  I didn't enjoy it one bit, and in 7th grade I made the executive decision that I would no longer play the violin and without telling my parents, signed up for beginners orchestra to play the cello. 
 
Ultimately my mother caught wind, probably when the Director called her and told her that I couldn't use the school's loaner cello any longer and she would need to start to rent one for me.  My mom pulled me out of beginner's orchestra, put me back in the class I was originally enrolled in where they just as quickly hid me in the last row.
 
I continued to play the violin for several more years, finally ending my orchestra history in 9th grade when I was placed, along with five other girls, in what would be named "Select Violin Ensemble."  Each one of us were deemed to play so atrociously that we couldn't even taint the musical waters with the rest of the performing orchestra.  Within weeks of our special class, our Director ended up just giving up on us and never made us play-it was the best two hour class of my freshman year.
 
I don't blame my parents for not allowing me to continue with the beginner's class, I can only assume my eagerness to learn the cello would wane just like many of my other preteen desires.  Not to mention, there was quite the investment of the violin that is still sitting in my garage to this day.
 
  Back to the few weeks I played the cello, my fondness for the richness of the instrument grew even deeper.  I loved to hear the bittersweet sounds coming from the strings.  I appreciated the deep, soulful melody you could create with just a few strokes of the bow.
 
And with that explanation, I can now tell my coworkers why, while I am writing, that I'm not suffering from allergies once again, but all of my Spotify playlists (mostly featuring 2Cellos) that are all cello based music.
 
Something about the music the gorgeous instrument makes speaks to my soul and makes me feel as though I have to stop everything just to experience each note, each pause with my eyes shut (which isn't as productive as I would like while at work).  
 
I secretly hope that either Baby or #2 will inherit my love for the cello.  Even if they are as bad at it as I was the violin, that is ok.  I mean, I'm sure my parents only encouraged me to stick with it as long as they did because their love for me gave them earmuffs and blocked how truly bad I was, right?
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