Dear Fiddle Player,
You, of all the people in this bottomless pit of depression, are one hopeful man.
Did you know, when your mother sent you to your room all those years ago to practice the violin until your fingers were numb, that you would one day be on stage with people chanting your name? Ok, maybe not your name, because the band isn’t actually named after you. But the lead guitarist did introduce you at the end of the set, so that counts, right? There were at least a few teenage girls ready to leap into your arms–
Arms which were once so scrawny that you counted your blessings that your chosen profession involved an itsy bitsy violin and not a full sized bass. You, my dear, were no knight in shining armor as an adolescent. Such armor would have a disturbing tendency of reflecting your pimple-besmirched visage upon the world. You would think that, by now, evolution would have eliminated all facial blemishes in order to populate the world with fertile and attractive people. This is not the case. Despite a predisposition for becoming a spokesperson for face wash and/or a young, timid preacher who speaks in hushed tones because God hears everything anyway, you have chosen a different path.
A path of glory. A path of greatness. A path of unfathomable musical ability.
How did you know that you would grow up to be Johnny McCool– the guy who rolls his sleeves up just so and looks devilishly handsome, the guy who makes the lead singer look like a soon-to-be-balding superstore clerk, the guy who transforms the band from Meh, they were fine to You should have heard that fiddle player?
Deep down, you had to know. You had to know that you were made for more than just elementary violin. You had to know that one day, you would stand at the front of the pack, laughing at the losers you left behind. You had to know that your destiny was bigger, brighter, and filled with adoring fans. That is why you protected your perfect pitch, even if it meant never going to a school dance because the speakers were too loud. That is why you looked like Linus, carrying blankets everywhere you went so that your precious instrument wouldn’t get too cold. That is why, when you finally graduated high school and moved on to art school/music school/coffee shop gig playing/bussing tables at the local Mexican restaurant, you stopped saying “I play the violin” and started saying “I play the fiddle.”
You are the definition of beating the odds. No matter your style of music, no matter your style of clothing (though the skinny jeans with the button down shirt is your safest bet), and really, no matter your sexual orientation, you are still the sexiest guy out there.
Thank you, Fiddle Player, for reminding us all what it means to dream.