Despite being on break, Wednesday I went to a UIndy guest recital and in a few short hours I'm going to the Symphony.
And to think that sometimes I wonder if I made the right choice in college.

Bassoon!

It's here. And it's beautiful. It's had a tough life so far, moving from Germany to PA to a freezing cold FedEx truck

to a clueless post office

to my 74-degree, 32% humidity practice room

to the Buffalo Airport, to the DC airport, and then to my house. Crazy. But it's beautiful and wonderful and I love it.

I think it's a girl. But the jury is still out on a name, so for now we're sticking with "the baby" or "the bassoon." This may seem ridiculous, but the name is an important thing to get right. The Bassoon and I are going to spend the rest of our lives together, hopefully, so it would be terrible to be stuck with a lame name like "Gunther" or "4real". It's a serious matter.

Yesterday was more emo than I had intended. I appologize. In my haste, I forgot completely about the Babysoon shower!

The Third Floor Lounge, which is quite possibly the best group of people ever, threw me a baby shower for my bassoon. Bekah told me that she and Clara were having coffee at 3 and that I should come. Instead, I took a nap. As I was slumbering, it occured to me that something must be up because Bekah doesn't drink coffee. When my alarm went off at 3 I turned it off and went back to sleep, deciding that was more important than third-wheeling. At 3:20 I awoke to both a phone call and Bekah knocking on my door. In my sleepy stupor I found myself led not to the coffee shop but up to the TFL, where I was met with loud cries of "SURPRISE!" There were brownies and cranberry bread, and a lot of people had made me cards. We played baby shower games and even Prof Cacie showed up with the little one. It was one of those positively wonderful moments that make Houghton a survivable place.
<3.

Appalacian Springs

It's over. It went well, but I would like one more concert. One more run through. No more rehearsals, no more practice... but one more chance. It's hard to put away a well-known work. It's hard to know that I'll probably never play Appalacian Springs again. Some music I'm happy to put away, despite knowing how great it is. But man... I could really go for one more. There were little parts where I didn't do so well, and a lot of parts where it went better than I anticipated. I know a lot of people made mistakes, but they didn't bother me very much. But there was one part... I forgot what key signature it was in, and I played a wrong note, and it's not even a huge deal, but it was a pretty exposed part and while I covered...decently? At least, people have been nice enough to not say they noticed. It's still gonna bother me for a long time.

Musicians.

The thing is, when we say "my ______ hurts," what we mean is "my _____ hurts and I'm afraid it won't get better. I'm afraid my career is ending, right now, and that I'm powerless to stop it. I'm afraid that this thing I've put so much time and money and work into is going to be useless, because how many Leon Fleischers can there be?"

So. When you hear a musician whining about their shoulders or their wrists or their whatevers, cut them some slack. It's scary.

So this one time (a year ago) I was at work and we were discussing our V-day plans or lack thereof. Naturally, I was in the "lack thereof" group, and someone jokingly suggested that another one of the "lack thereofs" and I should make plans with each other. The other Lack Thereof (clearly intimidated by my beauty, right?) awkwardly blurted out--"I'm not desperate enough to go out with you!"

ow.

And of course he appologized, and of course he didn't mean it the way it sounded. And it didn't really bother me, because I knew it wasn't what he meant. But since this is the best (only?) valentines day story I have, I figured I would tell it. Just for the hell of having one.

So I had this weird experience today.

I should back up.
Somewhere around two years ago, as often happens when people go to college, some friends of mine decided that a friend of theirs was quite like me. And as often happens, when we eventually met we kinda saw it but not really, and were perhaps a little weirded out but eventually moved on with our lives. Occasionally such a meeting ends in offense, but I don't particularly recall being offended in this instance, though I suppose it's entirely possible that not-me was offended at the thought of being like me.

So I had forgotten all about this, but this afternoon I was skimming through Facebook and encountered Not Me's wedding picture. In addition to being, in general, a gorgeous picture, I noticed: Not Me was wearing a wedding dress that I myself desperately want.

What the crap, Not Me? What the crap?
Is it not enough that you get to hang out with all my old friends?
That you managed to snag a really great guy?
FRIGGIN CUPCAKE TREE??
Is all of that not enough for you?
Couldn't you at least have an ugly dress? Please?

I was quite devistated to realize: I'm the lame Me. I thought she was my doppelganger, but no--I appear to be her's. It's an odd feeling, to think that someone out there is more successful at being you than you are.