Scales

It was a mistake to try to boost my self-esteem by signing up for advanced musical theory when I have never heard of an augmented triad, much less recognized three key signatures in three seconds flat. It was a mistake to even open the quiz packet while everyone around me reviewed major scales, and my eyebrows hurt from always looking concerned. It was a really big mistake to act pretentious and artsy this morning, harmonizing to my voice memos and tapping my foot on the side of the hallway, hair swept over one eye.

Some people wouldn't even call me a musician. What kind of musician doesn't know an A major scale by heart, so well that they can rattle it off like a snake, so well that they could write it with one hand while seductively flipping their hair with the other? What kind of musician wears blue cable knits in ninety degree September to avoid showing her somewhat slanted shoulders, while J5 and A flaunt bra straps and defined cheekbones until early winter (not that I have any idea how they can keep a tan so long) and look like goddesses doing it? What kind of musician doesn't own a single bottle of perfume, celebrity, designer, or otherwise, and in case of emergency walks through a cloud of air freshener?

Then again...

Since the month began, I've written or started writing eight songs. Since the month began, I've dared myself to wear a pair of super skinny jeans - and succeeded with flying colors, if the color is maroon and it was flying because I had thirty seconds to get to Physics. Since the month began, I've sung at home, on the subway platform, on the subway, in the middle of a Spanish exercise, outside the seventh grade hallway, in a stairwell, in a restaurant... the list goes on. So an ultimatum: Do I belong in advanced musical theory? Not by any means. But do I belong in music? I belong in music until I stop needing to.