Shoot! The Piano Tuner?

When the phone rang 15 minutes ago, I picked it up expecting another telemarketer or friend who forgot her homework (or God forbid, a college). The first hesitate syllables of “Is Mr. [insert horribly mangled version of my dad's name] there?” seemed to confirm that it was indeed a telemarketer.

The next words to tumble out of the caller’s mouth were, “I’m the piano tuner.” With the word “piano,” I winced as my stomach rang with a pang of guilt. I, who have not touched a piano for well over a year, did not want to think about it.

My history with the piano was a long and tortured affair. And a love affair it was not. In the days when I played piano, practicing was something I did with rote procedure and utter reluctance. Let me get it clear that I was never a musical child; the little musical talent I possessed was forced into me as a tube is forced down a windpipe. Whenever I think of piano, I think of that inestimable expanse of time when I could have been doing something I liked, rather than something I had to do. I just never had the enthusiasm.

I think that my thorough aversion to piano—perhaps partly borne out of rebellion against my parents’ wishes—has unfortunately spilled into a general aversion toward music. I used to listen to classical tracks in a hopeless attempt to imitate. Consequently, I now hear music and am often reminded of that dissatisfaction with piano practice.

I am putting my feelings too strongly. My active dislike of the piano has generally mellowed out a passive indifference. Sometimes, I’m even compelled to dabble and finger out a tune or two. I, however, do not hope to ever achieve that virtuoso ability of being one with the music.