Guitars and Panties
November 28, 2011 § 15 Comments
My husband and I were talking one night while folding clothes on the floor of our bedroom. SEXY stuff us married folk do. With Christmas approaching, we always want to make sure our kids don’t get too much. We have way too many toys already.The conversation eventually turned to what we wanted and needed.
“An electric guitar,” I heard myself say and eyed my panty pile. It was rather pathetic looking. “And panties. I need panties. I have exactly four pairs.”
Don’t look at me like that from the other side of the computer, judging me. We wash often. Like…every other day.
“Guitars and panties?” he said. “This sounds like a blog post you should write.” (and so you see I am)
We already own an acoustic guitar and I have a mediocre ability playing it. I’ve always wanted an electric one, but couldn’t justify paying for it when I hardly play the one we do have. Since we moved, I’ve played it more. Maybe if I had a sexy electric one in front of me, I’d want to play even more.
A few days later, I called my brother Kevin* up (for he is an excellent guitar player, owning an electric guitar, a bass, two acoustic ones, and a stand up bass he’s affectionately named “Ms. Otis”), and asked to borrow one of his for a while, just to feel things out. Then he and I could go shopping (because he is so knowledgable – a walking 6’4″ Google for guitars) after Christmas for mine.
He agreed and showed up Thanksgiving Day with this.
I’d never seen it before.”Where’d you get this?” I asked.
“It belongs to Amelia* (his wife). She never plays it and its been in our attic forever.”
I turned to Amelia. “I didn’t even know you had an electric guitar.”
She nodded. “I don’t think I’ve ever played it. Ollie Green* gave it to me in the 10th grade and my father didn’t like it. He thought the stickers Ollie put on there were too suggestive or provocative. So I told him I’d take the stickers off and would keep it.”
She pointed to an area of the guitar where she tried to remove the stickers a little too hard.
He turned the guitar around and showed me what he’d done.
“Will I need to ground it before plugging it in?” I asked.
I shook my head. “I want this one. How much do you want for it?”
Kevin and Amelia stared at me, but I was ready to buy it from them. I’m not saying I won’t want another guitar SOME DAY at some point and time, but for the purpose of “learning” and owning one, I wanted this Charvel.
See, Ollie Green graduated high school with me. We didn’t know each other that well, but we ended up attending the same University, and hung out more then. He joined a fraternity and asked me to an informal social – as a friend (I was dating my husband at the time and even then, people would refer to me as “married”) – and I got to know him better.
As Kevin and Amelia told me the story of the guitar, Ollie appeared in my mind’s eye wearing baggy jeans, smoking a cigarette on the quad. I wanted to find him on facebook, to tell him that I had his guitar, but couldn’t find him.
I wanted the guitar because it was used, because of the scratches, and because of the story behind it. Ollie Green has dropped off the face of the earth. I’ve barely thought about him in ten years, but I’m thankful to have a piece of him, a memory of a friend. Here. Now.
And good grief, I have played this guitar. My fingers feel like they should be bleeding. Oh, the hand cramps. Of all the body parts I’ve cursed, I never thought I’d shout, “CURSE YOU PINKY FINGERS. WHY ARE YOU SO WEAK?” But I have. I am addicted to playing it. After 10+ years, it is brought to life, and I am in love with the life it is giving to me.
Is there something you’ve bought or kept, simply because of the story behind the object?
And I plan on buying my panties new, free of sentimental history. Thanks.
*Names changed for their protection on the internets. You freaks.