scenes from a day (un)like any other

some days, i forget what i'm doing. routine rears her ugly head, opens her jaws wide and i jump in of my own volition, cruising down her grimy tongue like a slip n' slide. sometimes people stand between routine and me, look me square in the eye while her hot breath traipses across their necks and they say to me, "julia, look at me. you don't want to do this."

a few day ago, i was teaching guitar. it was this 6-year-old boy's first lesson. he sat in the chair across from me with his blue-light special guitar that stays in tune about as well as a tissue box with rubber bands laced across it. his shy little eyes wandered around the room for much of the lesson, but rarely met mine. we got him playing and he seemed to get a little more comfortable. there is a mirror across from the student's chair so they can adjust their holding position and see what they need to improve. in my final explanation before the lesson was over, i was looking at my guitar trying to show him something, when i looked up to find him with his eyes clenched shut (actually, squinting so he could watch himself), nodding his head up and down, mouth agape, fingers flying in the most adept display of air guitar my teaching career has ever seen. look out, angus young. thank you, little shredder.

you're right. i teach guitar, not monotony.