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.