We all know this about our family members and our offline friends, too; they like us, they admire our talents, and they don’t generally wake up in the morning intending to lie to us. But when all is said and done, their approval or disapproval of the sum total of US matters more than any helpful critique they may have to offer. My husband is a patient teacher, and a good one, but he is not the best teacher for me. He has only to smile at my mistakes with a look that says, "That's so cute," and I'm devastated. Thick skinned as I am, I rarely ask him to read what I write, and I pray he doesn’t say, “Oh, can I read that?” Luckily for us both, he seems pretty relieved to be off that particular hook, himself.
In other news…
I quit the guitar lessons. “Creative differences, eh?” said my husband.
“Yeah, Jerry deserves to teach someone who at least hopes to play like Segovia some day.”
“Who?”
“Never mind. It just kills him that I want to play folk music. That and the fact that I still can’t play the theme to ‘Green Acres’ after three months of lessons.”
“Quitter,” muttered Katie, opening the guitar case and playing Incubus songs by ear.
“Brat,” I said, smacking her over the head with “Three EZ Sheryl Crow Tunes.”
My arthritic neck and arms have been thanking me, though. They’re now able to hunch over the computer keyboard for an extra hour a day.
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