Guest Post: Lori

Lori was one of my good friends in high school, and I saw her a lot because we were in marching band together, had most of the same classes, and even got our first jobs at the same movie theater. She is super smart and has an artistic flair in everything she does. Lori lives in Texas with her husband and two adorable dogs; she currently works for the American Heart Association but her passions include cooking, gardening, and writing. --Miri

For as long as I can remember in my adolescent life, I have had stage fright. However, one of my fondest memories of my childhood was a day that my parents took me to some kind of fair and I was volunteered to be the lead in an impromptu play. In my young and innocent mind, I remember being brilliant, but then my adult brain takes over and tells me that that couldn’t possibly be so. Why is it that as we get older, we start putting so much emphasis on what other people think? For me, it gets to a point where I am actually holding back so much I make myself miserable. My husband and I were at the Shops at Legacy one night when there was a cover band playing on the street. For the most part, except for a select few that I am insanely envious of (my husband being one of them), all the adults were sitting, standing with crossed arms, or completely ignoring the music. But the children were a different story, dancing and thrashing about, having a grand ol’ time. And as much as I wanted to, I could not bring myself to move to the music.

I probably gave myself IBS during my first year at college, because as a music major, I was required to play—alone—on a stage, very frequently. To this day I’m not sure how I had the nerve to do so, but these were some of the most frightening and gratifying times in my life. I remember the nights before trying to come up with reasons to get out of the performance (breaking my own finger being one of them!). I also remember breaking out in a cold sweat right before I went on, trembling like that last leaf holding onto the branch for dear life before the barren winter takes hold of it. But then adrenaline and muscle memory takes over and before I know it, I'm playing my last note... and then, the beautiful applause. I would immediately start scrutinizing my mistakes, but as I look back on those performances I think, who would have known (other than my fellow flautists) that I had played the end note at forte instead of piannisimo?

One of my recent goals is to “speak” at a spoken word event at the Dallas Museum of Art. I’ve fantasized about doing so, and have even gone so far as to pick out a piece of prose to present. But just thinking about it makes my stomach flip. On the other hand, what kind of life am I living without experiencing stomach flipping events? Am I just taking the safe road through life? Perhaps these are the experiences that really define me as a person... and I'm sure in 40 years if I never take the risk I will sincerely regret it.