Fate intervenes.

Have you ever known something was a bad decision before you made it? Have you ever done it anyway? My bad decision was the Air Force.

I like to refer to myself as one of those "hippie-dippy" non-conformist types. I'm not an activist, but I'm a vegetarian and a bit of a pacifist. So how did I land on the bright idea of enlisting? My motivation for this ill-advised venture was based on stability, a word I learned from my mother.

 One of my reasons for leaving music school had been the unlikely prospect of paying off my massive student loans in my chosen profession of musical performance. The Air Force offered a unique opportunity to do just that. The voice teacher I was studying with at the time had some connections to the Falconaires Jazz Band, the official Air Force band. They were looking for a new singer and my voice teacher believed I was just what they were looking for. This was a full-time paying gig. Yes, I would have to go through basic training, a thought that terrified me (I can't do even a single push-up, and I have an annoying habit of crying when people yell at me), but the Air Force would help me pay for the remainder of my schooling. Plus I would have all the benefits of a military job. Stability.

So, I sent in my CD audition packet and waited for the phone call. It came! I was one of five vocalists that would move on to the live audition. Not only that, I was the youngest candidate. I was also the only candidate who didn't already come from a military background. I was intimidated, but excited. Here was a chance to prove that my musical education had not been a waste of two years and $60 thousand.

I knew it was a long shot, and there was a nagging little part of me (fuelled by my fear of basic training) that secretly wanted this to go poorly. I knew that I was up against some tough competition. I even knew one of the other girls auditioning. She had gone to the same university as I had and she was a legend there. With the odds against me, I knew that I needed a plan B. The six month grace period on my student loans was about to run out, and I couldn't afford the $500 monthly payments that would be heading my way. I knew it would be difficult for a college drop-out to find a job that would make enough to pay these monthly bills, so I faced the tough truth. I would have to go back to school.

Fall semester was about a month away. There wasn't time to apply to any schools, but I knew the university in  my hometown of Podunk, Colorado wouldn't turn me away. So, I promised myself, "If I don't get this gig, I'll go straight to the office of admissions and enroll in fall semester."

Three hours later, I had been cut from the final rounds of auditions along with two other girls. I got in my car and drove down the highway straight to the college. I didn't even stop to change out of my audition clothes or grab my transcripts. Within five minutes of speaking to an advisor, I was enrolled. It didn't feel great, but I was proud of the fact that I had done something.

A couple of months later, I ran into a musician friend who used to play in the Falconaires. He told me that the group had been disbanded as a part of budget cuts. So that sure thing, stable job I almost had would have collapsed only a few months in...then I would have been a cadet, part of an organization I don't really believe in, fighting for someone else's cause and not utilizing my music degree to do it.

They say (and I'd love to know who they are), "Everything happens for a reason." I'm not sure if I entirely agree, but in this case, I'd have to say, there's definitely something to that...

Admitting defeat.

As any twelve-step program will tell you, the first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem. If you have ever had a problem, you may be familiar with the phrase, "Easier said than done."

Admitting you don't know what to do with your life after three years of college is hard to do. I have invested tens of thousands of dollars that I don't have in a life I am no longer pursuing. Two years into music school, I realized that music school made me HATE music. One of the scariest things I have ever done was to admit this to my parents. What made this particularly hard was waiting for the inevitable, "I told you so," from my very practical mom.

Musical performance is a risky career direction. The economy is bad right now, so people have less money to spend on frivolous things like going to see some chick sing old jazz songs. Part of me knew that, the same part of me that knew I could never become a tiger, no matter how often I practiced my jungle stalking skills. But, part of me refused to believe this, the same part of me that wished to be a tiger in the first place.

This part of me can only be described as hope. I used to believe that hope and faith were the same thing. I treated them the same way in my thoughts. To hope for something was to have faith that it would one day be true. The world has made a cynic of me, though, and the distinction between the two has become clear and cloudy at the same time. After two years of spending all of my time with musicians I began to realize that hope was as silly a thing as believing that wishing on the evening star would turn me into a large jungle cat.

Music school showed me how hard it was to be a musician. I considered my professors to be successful musicians, but the more time I spent with them, the more I realized that success as a musician wasn't what I had envisioned. Each of these musicians shared a commonality that scared me. They were teachers. Even though they gigged regularly, had excellent technique and style, they had to supplement their income with teaching. I didn't want to be a teacher. I had specifically gone into musical performance, NOT musical education. My fate seemed to be sealed, though, being a musician meant making some sacrifices. Sacrifices I wasn't willing to make.

So, sixty thousand dollars later, I had lost my passion for music. I stopped hanging out with friends. I started sleeping though classes. I even made myself so sick, I had to practically be carried to dinner one night. Sixty thousand dollars later, I admitted to my parents, and to myself, that I had a problem. I didn't want to go to music school anymore. I didn't want this life.

Admitting this wasn't easy, and the life I have led since hasn't been easy either. You see, admitting I didn't want to go to music school also meant that I was admitting I didn't know what I wanted to do with my life. Whatever I had felt inside though out the years, I had always maintained a sense of purpose and direction to the world. Now that facade was broken and I was forced to begin the search for a new path. I have started down many roads, only to run back screaming the way I had come. Today marks a fresh attempt at tackling my problem. Admitting you have a problem is the first step to recovery. Maybe this blog is the second footfall.