Wednesday, August 5, 2009

forty-six and I like it

Last night, I called E, the woman who will share her apartment with me during the Ladies Rock Camp. Like me, she's always wanted to go electric, move from coffee-house style to at least one louder. Like me, she sings, plays a little guitar. And, like me, she's over forty-five. We are different because she has no spouse or child. And she's a New Yorker.

E is going to camp because she's always wanted to rock out—plain and simple. She'd signed up with a girlfriend last summer, but foot surgery got in the way. For me, back surgery is a hindrance, and we both have decided to leave our own guitars at home.

E's friends—a drummer, a bassist, and a singer—have signed up with her, so I'll be odd girl out. No room to be bandmates.

It's no secret I'm nervous. It's a healthy nervous—the kind that comes from both travel and crippling stagefright.

Part of me thinks we're a bit closer to Iron Workz than we'd care to admit.

Another part of me watches eleven-year-old rockers and thinks I ought to give it up.

Then again, maybe I ought to embrace my outer forty-six year old. I can always blame arthritis, hot flashes, and memory lapses for the major suckage.

Eighteen year olds don't have an excuse.


  1. You'll be fine. And you look hot.
    And I'm looking forward to see you tomorrow!

  2. looking forward to this journey of yours.


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