I day dream a lot. Lately I've imagined myself onstage in the ridiculous outfits I've recently purchased. (Dia is a pop act now so anything goes!). My daydream goes two ways. Sometimes the show is perfection, and those crazy stage lights blind me, and I feel like I'm in heaven and at the top of the world living everyone's dream. Other times, I imagine myself tripping over the keyboard stand, ripping my dress that I spent an entire paycheck on, and rolling off the stage into a crowd that separates once they realize I'm about to smash them. (You've seen the youtube videos, the ones where the crowd surfer dives to his doom once everyone decides his life isn't worth preserving.)
I bought these heels a few days ago. They are the super platform kind, the kind of shoes that you almost need ski poles to aid you while your walking. I'm always grabbing on to Nick's arm, steering clear of threatening potholes. Whenever my death-grip cuts off his circulation, he asks me in a slightly annoyed tone,
"Why do you wear those kinds of shoes anyway?"
"I'm trying to become familiar with them so I can wear them on stage!" I grunt with effort.
"Why, so you can be like every other guitar-playing chick in high heels?"
"What female shreds in high heels?" I growl back.
"That broad's a punk rocker! She tromps around stage in chuck tailors, come on!" (Like I used to, I think to myself, as I recall fond memories of the simple touring days.)
It was at that point that my stellar heel hit a pot hole, and I face planted in pavement. I think the universe was on Nick's side of the argument…
Worrying about an event far off in the future doesn't do any good. In fact, one's performance in any given situation depends mostly on one's confidence. I used to think that advice was a crock of crap only a few months ago, but a couple recent experiences have changed my mind.
Do any of you remember seeing my "back-flip off the rope swing" youtube video? Before I jumped to my death, instead of thinking, "Good lord, my face is about to be imprinted on those jagged rocks below me," I took hold of that mossy rope and decided right then and there that I could do it. "It's the same thing as a trampoline. I've done a million back flips. I'm going to show those six year olds in their inner tubes below me who is boss woman!" I thought.
And I did it.
And then I did it again.
And then every beer-guzzling, lake-drifter and sunbathing-diva were asking me for advice, watching for the next time my turn came up to evaluate how I executed my superb "back-flipping technique".
The second time I surprised myself happened while I was gripping the handles of Nick's scooter. God, I hate motorcycles and scooters, and anything mechanical on wheels without a windshield or passenger side doors. It just seems like all it would take is a tiny gust of wind, and then you're road kill. I rode around on a death-machine recently, sitting behind Nick, gripping his stomach, enjoying the wind ratting my hair up into one big clump on the back of my neck. The afternoon was lovely. I felt a like a googly-eyed kid on her first ride of Disneylands "It's a Small World". Not a responsibility in the world. All I had to do was hold on. Then Nick had to ask me "if I wanted to drive?"
"Well, sure." I put on a macho front. I'm like Marty McFly. No one better call me "chicken". So we disembarked and traded places in the Barnes n' Noble parking lot to practice. True, I was having a rough time with the turns. Instead of speeding up and taking them smooth, I slowed down to a snails pace to the point that both of us would wobble over and Nick would have to put his feet down to explain that "Speed is on our side when it comes to turning." "That's what YOU think." I thought to myself. I reasoned in my head that the slower we traveled the softer we would fall when we CRASHED!
He hesitated when it came to letting me drive us home on an actual ROAD road filled with other vehicles, and although I truly didn't want to be in charge of both of our lives, I took the lead. I decided, I can either "chicken" out, and we can wobble our way to death by embarrassment on our way home, or I can quit being a pansy and just drive the thing.
I took hold of the handles, pressed down on the accelerator, floored that baby if you will, and I was a rockstar on that scooter! Meg the Rockstar Scooter Driver. Has a nice ring to it.
Once again, I had zero experience. Nick had zero (if not negative) expectations, but I decided I was going to do it. The confidence went up, and the performance went up.
It's all or nothing, baby. Let's ride!