You’d think by now that I’d have learned to keep my thoughts inside my head, but if you’ve read this column for any length of time, surely by now you know I’m not hardwired to hold back.
You’d also think that my husband, the Carpenter, would be used to my impulsive outbursts of truly deep thoughts, yet it seems to always catch him off guard.
“I think I want to take violin lessons,” I stated casually, while folding laundry into neat piles along the couch. “Everybody loves the violin. It’s good in almost any musical genre, too.”
Sure, it was a random thought.
Out of left field, as they say.
Spontaneous expression, if you will.
The Carpenter and I were in the living room together, silently working on independent tasks (well, I was working. He was checking sports scores on his phone. Ahem). There was no music playing. No violins around. No reason or inspiration whatsoever to engage in a conversation on the merits of my playing violin. I was simply thinking aloud.
He looked up at me, puzzled by the context of my random remark. His right eyebrow did that thing where it rises up while the left one lowers, and the pupils of his eyes shrink, a look that suggests he is questioning if heard me correctly, and if so, is this a joke?
“I wonder if it’d be hard to learn an instrument at my age. It’s good for the brain to learn a new skill. Do you think it’s true that it gets harder to learn new things at this point in the game?” I queried.
I could read his thoughts, the ones he never speaks aloud. Why is she talking about violins? Why does she insist on interrupting the very serious work of looking up sports scores on NFL Sunday to talk about violin lessons? She barely survived the saxophone in high school. New skill? As if. How have I endured her brand of crazy for 30 years?
His eyebrows levelled out and his pupils widened, which is the sign that he’d had time now to digest the questions, had gotten over the randomness of it all, and had found his sarcastic reply.
“Well, you are old,” said the man three years my senior, looking up from his phone. “But I don’t think anyone in this house could survive your attempts to destroy a violin. It would be cruel to the instrument itself, much less the rest of us.”
I gave him no reaction, because he clearly wanted one. I kept folding socks, piling them precariously tall against the cushions. He took another swing at it.
“Maybe try a wind instrument. You’re full of hot air,” he said, flicking his finger over the screen of his gadget, chuckling to himself.
I carried on, folding towels, deflecting his insults while imagining my future musical career options because, unlike my sports guy, I can multi-task. What if I was a natural at playing violin and had lived this long with no idea of my hidden talent?
He wasn’t finished.
“Think of your dog. Think of the trauma you would cause her with your high-pitched chord screeching. Poor thing, she can barely handle your off-key singing as it is,” he said, laughing quite hardily now.
Singing lessons. Yes, that’s the ticket. I mean, my car karaoke is amazing. I’ll sing with a violinist.
Yes. Sign me up.
Who’s laughing now, Carpenter?
