Latley, I've felt like learning to play an instrument. I can barely clap to a beat and I'm pretty sure I'm tone deaf, but perhaps that's because I've never given music an honest try. After a little practice, maybe I'd surprise myself? I'm playing it safe, with my sights set on a pretty ukulele. I figure that if my one-woman band never takes off, I can use it to practice playing air guitar.*
Growing up, no one in my home could play an instrument or hold a note except my Mom. She'd walk around the house singing whatever songs she knew, usually commercial jingles, the theme to the Beverly Hillbillies and the entire Cranberries discography. As a tween, I insisted that if I didn't get to listen to the "alternative rock" station in the car, I'd die. I don't even think she liked or even actively listened to the music, but somehow she instantly knew all the words. That really got under my skin. These were my songs, and it took me at least 3 diary pages to write out lyrics in Prismacolor markers before I could commit them to memory. Then there's my mom, wearing a fanny pack with an ankle length crinkle skirt, absorbing Pearl Jam lyrics with the eidetic memory of Rain Man. I'd often catch her washing dishes, warbling an a capella version of "Rooster" by Alice in Chains in her sing-song falsetto. She'd embellish the chorus with her own vocal flair. Depending on who else played witness, I'd either become infuriated, turn red from embarrassment or snort out a laugh.
*I think playing tiny air guitar is way hilarious.