After much hemming and hawing, whining, pissing and moaning (and that’s just on my end) and several phone calls, it was decided.
Ben came home yesterday with his very own (rental) violin. It may not be the cello I was rooting for (because seriously, even after many years of not playing, I could still do it in my sleep), but he is more pleased with himself than I’ve ever seen him.
I suppose it’s fortunate, really, that I have such a background in stringed instruments, because I was able to help him muddle through some of his first assignments, while Daver, the maestro of the violin himself, was able to work somewhere that his eardrums remained intact, and not bleeding into the white carpet.
Oh, don’t get me wrong, maybe I’m still wearing the Bitter Pants because I lost the battle of What Instrument Ben Plays, but I can’t help but wish he’d chosen something a little less, oh I don’t know HIGH PITCHED. A completely unexpected side effect of the squeaking of the the violin strings (E, A, D, G, for those luckily not in the know) is that the dog, who is normally firmly implanted on the couch (I am often able to forget that we have a dog at all, which was, not terribly shockingly, a qualification I had for getting a dog), sleeping through both day and night, only lumbering languidly off when someone goes into the kitchen to make food, howls relentlessly while it is played.
Without knowing it, he’s echoing my sentiments exactly.
It’s just too bad for the both of us, because like it or not, we’re going to have to get used to it.