In keeping with my plans to dominate the world through isolation and antipathy, I don’t do guest posts anymore.
I like my words with me.
I believe this is the last of my guest posts to be brought back home.
This post originally appeared over at Laugh Quotes, and it makes me smile.
Every time.
Strum, strum, strum . . . .
When I was first dating my husband many many years ago, he mentioned casually (by which I mean that he totally shoe-horned this bit of bragging into a completely unrelated conversation) that he played guitar.
Huh.
He so did not look like a guitar player to me.
At first, I thought he meant that he played guitar, like in a band or something.
But that’s not what he meant . . . he just played guitar for his own enjoyment.
Well, that’s pretty awesome, right? I adjusted my expectations accordingly.
By which I mean that I assumed that the mostly stillish waters of this man’s surface hid deep turbulent artistic roiling depths of emotion. Yay! Maybe he will write me a song! Maybe he will serenade me! This is a tortured man of poetry and music and lyrics!
Weird, though . . . he did not seem like such a man.
So I waited for him to reveal himself to me.
He carried on being a man of stillish water.
Huh.
I really liked this man of stillish water. I needed calm and peace and serenity in my life. I really liked this man. I thought I could see a future with this man.
So now the guitar thing began to weigh on me.
What if this man really was a tortured artistic wannabe musician?
I didn’t want that in my life, not on a permanent basis.
So I watched for signs of troubled depths.
He carried on being a man of stillish waters.
Huh.
But then?
There was this . . .
I arrived at the house he shared with several roommates one night after work. One of the roommates let me in, saying, “Mark’s messing around with his guitar.” I walked to Mark’s room, from which I could hear weird music emanating. I took a deep breath . . . here was the moment when I would see the depths he had been keeping from me.
I knocked and then opened the door.
There was the musician, and he smiled and welcomed me with a beckoning wave.
Peter Gabriel-era Genesis filled the room, and Mark was playing along on his guitar.
A single chord, strummed over and over again.
Strum . . . strum . . . strum.
Like a drumbeat, if there is a drum in the world that accomplishes total disharmony with every beat.
Strum . . . strum . . . strum.
His face was filled with intensity as he carefully placed his fingers and found the exact same incredibly wrong chord again.
Strum . . . strum . . . strum.
Relief and laughter flooded my body.
I giggled hysterically and threw myself down on the bed, “Oh my god! I thought you meant you actually played guitar!”
He was puzzled, “What are you talking about? I am playing guitar.”
Strum . . . strum . . . strum.
I kept giggling and wiped tears from my eyes, “Oh my god. I love you.”
Wait . . . what?
Twenty-six years later?
He is still making me laugh.
Strum.
