My son’s electric guitar teacher spreads joy and wisdom on a weekly basis. You go into a lesson with Shon feeling down about school or friends or a disaster on the athletic field, and it’s almost a guarantee that you will come out grinning and chewing gum, his prize for a strong week of practicing.
Shon has a philosophy that “it will work out somehow,” and it usually does. Last minute change of lesson time? Someone else will cancel for just the half hour you need. “See?” he says. “It always works out. I don’t know how, but it does.”
Today, when he walked my smiling son out after a session rocking out to Nirvana’s Teen Spirit, he said he was feeling old. He is starting to hear our generation’s theme songs translated to elevator music.
“I heard the Muzak version of Led Zeppelin in the grocery store! That is so wrong.”
I am still trying to hum a Muzak version of Whole Lotta Love, after Googling “Led Zeppelin songs”, with a picture of big-haired, shirtless men in my brain. Never my cup of tea, but I still cannot translate.
Are we really that old?
Of course, Shon seemed to brush it off as soon as he said it. On to the next middle school guitar player waiting to be freed from school-grind-boredom. It’s just me left freaking out. No joy for mom at guitar today.