Untamed

It’s late afternoon, and I’m winding down from a nine-hour workday. Abby pops her head into my office and says, “Babe! Guess what? I’m going to start playing ice hockey! I found a league that plays Monday nights. I’m looking at gear now. I’m so psyched.”

ME: Wait. What? You play ice hockey?

ABBY: No, but I used to play when I was little. My brothers would put me in goal, and I’d just stand there and let the pucks bounce off of me. So fun.

Fun.

I am confused about “fun.” Abby is always asking me “What do you do for fun?” I find the question aggressive. What is fun? I don’t do fun. I am a grown-up. I do family, work, and trash TV. Repeat forever.

But we are newlyweds, so I am still sweet. I say, “That’s great, honey!”

Abby smiles, comes over to kiss me on the cheek, then walks out the front door. I stare at my computer. I have so many questions.

Why does she get to have fun? Who has the time and money for fun? I’ll tell you who: everyone in this family but me. Craig has soccer and Chase has photography and the girls have…everything. Everyone has a thing but me. Must be nice to have time for a thing.

This “must be nice” thought stops me. It always does.

Hmm. Maybe it is nice. Maybe that’s why they all want a thing.

Maybe I want a thing.

I sit and think about the one thing I’ve always wanted to be: a rock star. I am so jealous of rock stars. If I could have one talent I do not have, it would be singing. When I was little, I used to stand in front of the mirror with a hairbrush and transform into Madonna in an arena. Now it’s P!nk. In my car, alone. I am P!nk. I am the P!nkest. I am P!nker than P!nk. I am Deep Magenta.

I realize that my wife, Madonna, and P!nk have rung my doorbell and are delivering a package. I am wildly envious of all of them, and envy is the red flashing arrow pointing me toward what to do next. So, I search “guitar lessons, Naples Florida” on my phone. I follow the links. I find a guitar teacher who offers lessons to high school kids in a tiny music store a couple miles from my house. I call her. I set up a time for my first lesson.

When Abby walks back through the front door, I meet her in the foyer, alive and bouncing.

ME: Hi! Can you keep the kids on Fridays after school?

ABBY: Sure, why?

ME: I’m going to start guitar lessons. My whole life I have wanted to be a rock star, so I am going to go ahead and be one now. I am going to learn to play the guitar, and then I am going to write my own songs, and when we are at parties I am going to pull out my guitar and people are going to gather around and sing along. They will be so happy because they were separate and lonely until my music mixed them all together. And everyone is going to think: She is so cool. And then I will likely get discovered and find myself on a stage somewhere singing to thousands. I won’t be good at singing, I know that’s what you’re thinking. But that is the point! I won’t be the kind of singer who inspires people because she’s good, I will be the kind of singer who inspires people because she’s bad! Like, people will listen to me onstage and instead of thinking: I wish I could sing like her, they’ll think: Well, if she can sing up there, then I guess I can do anything.

ABBY: Okay, babe. Trying to follow all of this. You’re starting guitar lessons. This is awesome. And sexy. Wait, did I hear you say that we are going to start attending parties, too?

ME: No.

I love learning to play guitar. It’s hard, but it opens up another part of me, one that makes me feel more human. I think the word for this experience might be fun. But to have that fun, I had to climb down from Martyrdom Mountain. I had to allow myself one less thing to sigh about. I had to ask for help. I had to sacrifice some of my moral high ground, perhaps lose a few points in the She Who Suffers Most competition. I think we are only bitter about other people’s joy in direct proportion to our commitment to keep joy from ourselves. The more often I do things I want to do, the less bitter I am at people for doing what they want to do.

I made my rock star debut on Instagram recently. I played “Every Rose Has Its Thorn,” and three times as many people watched as there are seats in Madison Square Garden. I am just saying: Deep Magenta.