Femme and Photo

The Need-To-Know:
20-something.
Names aren't really important.
Part-time lover. Full-time angry feminist.
Photo-taker and coffee-maker.
Addicted to travel of any kind.
Native of the Sunshine State.

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My college is looking to hire a student to play piano at a holiday event this year. 

I’m going to apply.

"Yes, I’ve been playing for..oh, 20 years now. Yes. Well, my age is irrelevant, but let me tell you: 20 years is a long time. I would never say this myself, and I mean, I…don’t like to brag, but.. I’ve been called, I mean…some people…have called me an expert pianist."

I’ll send them a clip of Tchaikovsky. “I …wrote that,” I’ll say bashfully.  

The night of the event will come. I’ll stride over to the piano bench gracefully, my formal gown swishing around my feet. I’ll gingerly remove my long, white silk gloves…you know, the ones that all lady pianists have.

I’ll fan my gown out around the bench and lean forward slightly, back straight. I’ll close my eyes.

I’ll strike the first key, deep and bassy and just slightly longer than the second. I’ll do it again. …and then again; I’ll hit these two powerful notes, one right after the other, faster each time, and after just a few brief measures, the audience will realize they are listening to the theme song from 1975 Spielberg classic, Jaws. They will break uneasy smiles and the event staff will laugh nervously, in an attempt to convince each other that I am surely not serious. 

…But I am serious.

I strike the two notes again, even faster this time. The tension is building and the event planner is walking toward me and just as the song is climaxing…

I switch to Chopsticks. 

Now everyone laughs louder. The event planner pauses in her quick steps toward me. People are laughing. Of course she’s kidding. She’s a piano EXPERT. This is ENTERTAINMENT. She’s a regular SHOWLADY. Surely she is about to play one of her genius, original classical pieces that sound so beautifully similar to Tchaikovsky, just right after this silly rendition of chopsticks. 

I stop playing chopsticks suddenly. I climb clumsily onto the body of the baby grand, playing accidental, awkward flat and minor chords with my heels. I throw my silk white gloves into the crowd. One lands on a platter of assorted cheese. The other, on an old man’s head. He is secretly pleased. 

I bow deeply and give thanks to my new fans. 

"Talk to your doctor about birth control."

Me: “okay, so, I have terrible periods-like the kind that make you curl into a ball and bleed pints and ruin your whole week- so I’m not supposed to get the copper IUD because of the cramping? Plus, let’s be honest- copper? In my vagina? Weird. And I can’t take the pills, because they make me nauseous and I can’t eat for days and also they make me feel crazy(like ‘I’m gonna kill myself’-kinda crazy, you know?)So that’s probably not good and also I’m terrified of commitment …really of any kind, so those things you stick up in you for three years? I can’t handle that. I can’t do the patch because I have really sensitive skin and adhesives make me break out and don’t even talk to me about the ortho-depo shot because if I see a needle, I WILL pass out. Oh, and I’m sick of using condoms because, you know that sensitive skin I told you about? It’s down there, too and latex and all that is pretty irritating… SO! What are my birth control options?”

Doctor: *open-mouth stare*