Lessons (2, that is)

The rule for lessons, as I recall, was that we could take two at a time. There were times when I thought my parents were limiting my options by only letting me choose two lessons to take. Now that I know how expensive they are, and think about the amount of kids there were paying for, I think that two lessons was generous! Also, it helped up narrow our focus and learn to stick to things.

Soccer didn't count as one of the two, thankfully! I loved playing soccer, even though I was never great at it. I almost always played defender and could often be caught doing handstands near the goal. I can still hear dad yelling "atta girl, Hol!" from the sidelines. I loved the yellow and blue uniforms, traveling to play against places like Lewiston and Paradise (that seemed to be hours away), and the half time food (usually orange slices and water, and sometimes hot chocolate when it got really cold... and it could get cold). There was one time when, for some reason, I was playing midfield, and the ball came to me. I dribbled to the goal, and was getting too fast to control the ball. My dad was watching. This was my big chance to score a goal (I never had...or did). I gave it my all and kicked it hard, only to have it shot back in my face (more specifically my nose) by the other player. The blood came quick, and I was subbed out. Never again would I come so close to a long-shot dream of scoring.

My official two lessons were piano and gymnastics. Through the years I grew to hate the one and love the other. I am still the only person I know who was fired by their piano teacher. I didn't mind piano at first, but the strict half hour practice a day rule really wore me down. I would stall and stall and piddle, and whine, and do backbends over the piano bench, and pretty much anything else I could think of to avoid practicing. It was rough, and there was no getting around it. At first, I thought there was a way out, but mom kept changing the rules (I could quit after: I had taken for four years, or I reached middle school and chose a different instrument, or after I could play hymns - all of them???,...). The bottom line it that I never was allowed to quit... which is probably why I got fired. It was a tender mercy on the part of Mrs. Harding, I'm sure, but on the way home from her house I cried. I was torn. On the one hand, what a relief! On the other hand, it was humiliating. She was a little mean about firing me (I'm sure she was really fed up with my lack of progress week after week). And what would mom say? I know she was very disappointed, and to this day feels cheated for pushing me and paying for years and years of piano lessons on my behalf with very little to show for it. What can I say? I'm sorry. It was just not my thing.

Gymnastics on the other hand, was my thing. Even though I can admit that I wasn't incredibly good that that either. I was always the oldest and biggest in my classes (all of the girls my age moved up a lot fasted that I did). I wasn't in denial about that. The important thing is that I really loved it. I loved being in shape and having a six-pack. I loved my teachers and classmates. I was painfully shy in middle school, and gymnastics was my safe haven, my refuge from the social nightmare that was middle school. I felt good about myself there (at all of the places around town that I took). It made me very disciplined, and required a good grade point average at school. I liked going to meets for competition, but I never really liked competition itself. I almost always cracked under pressure, especially on the beam. As puberty hit (or didn't hit, depending on how you looked at it), I liked leotards less and less, but that is another story. :) For a long time I really dreamed of being in the olymics. When I realized that I was way too old, and way not talented enough, I dreamed of being on the Aggie gymnastics team... oh well. You all know where my gymnastics ultimately led me... *sigh* ... GO GRIZZLIES!!! WOO-HOOOO!!!