Because nobody sat next to me on today’s flight.

That’s right. No grumpy man to ask, do you mind? No commentary from the peanut gallery, remarking, “Boy, you sure do get comfortable!” after I have finally extricated myself from the pretzel-like position into which I had twisted my legs; and better yet, no fake smile in response. No inquisitive well-meaning person who, upon finding out why exactly I am going to Saskatoon in the first place, wants to know everything about this business, even the most insulting question: Do you get paid?

This isn’t the peace corp, people.

Believe it or not, when we sign up to leave our homes and loved ones, we sort of expect a paycheck in return. And though we sing What I Did For Love every night, and sing it well, that doesn’t preclude the fact that love isn’t going to pay your mortgage. You can’t send your credit card bills back with a kiss mark and a check for zero dollars. And though yes, we love this, we love it a lot more when it pays.

So here I am, allowing myself a good honest sprawl between two (count them: one, two!) chairs on this fine aircraft from Air Canada Jazz.

And no, that’s not me being cute because I happen to like that style of dancing and don’t even get me started on the music. That’s really what it’s called. Air Canada JAZZ. I was half hoping they’d bedazzle me with some jazz hands when I boarded the plane, but I suppose they have to save their fingers for beverage preparation and closing overhead compartments and um, the actual act of flying this plane. And I don’t blame them.

But something else about jazz hands.

I dated a guy named John who was a fabulous musician. Actually, every guy I have ever dated has been a fabulous musician. All two of them. Well, three if you count the time I wasn’t allowed to really date unless it was this one sweet guy who my parents’ more than approved of, and so let me date him. But he was a fabulous musician too. Which wasn’t my point–so let’s get back on track here.

While I was dating John, my brother had written a musical. He cast it and rented a theater and directed it and everything. We were all gung-ho about it because honestly, it was great. Much better than a lot of crap poor actors are forced to learn and sell to audiences world wide. Now, I had always wanted to be in a musical, and though my brother knew this, what he needed more than one more person moonlighting on the stage was a pianist to accompany the show.

So I swallowed my disappointment, watched all my friends and siblings perform, and accompanied them with (mostly) a good attitude. I do have to say, though, that one total perk to being the maestro was the clothes. I didn’t get it in my contract or anything like that, but upon finding out that I needed something respectable to wear for the performances, my mom sure did run to urban outfitters and buy me at least three black, adorable outfits.

Cha-ching.

Now who wishes they weren’t in the spotlight, enjoying the accolades of the audience, but were instead seated at the piano, wearing an adorable new outfit? That’s what I thought.

Anyway, there was this one song in the score that was all crazy and jazzy and have I mentioned before how I don’t really read music so well? I play by ear mostly, can totally navigate through written chords, but will be reduced to plucking painfully slow if you put sheet music in front of me. So yeah, don’t ask me to accompany you for an audition anytime soon. But, in order for me to help remember the feel for this one song, and because of the fact that the chords weren’t as straight forward as they appeared, I wrote in big lettering on the top of the page,

and then proceeded to draw two sets of hands, fingers outstretched in a way that would make Corky Sinclair proud, in that classic jazz hand way.

This was my own score, so I never thought anyone would see my little reminder and didn’t give it another thought other than to well, be reminded of the song’s jazziness when I flipped to that particular page and saw the hands.

Until my boyfriend John came to the dress rehearsal.

John, piano genius, who sat right next to me and offered to turn pages.

And then when he saw those jazz hands…well, he laughed. And laughed some more. And wouldn’t stop making jazz hands of his own. I guess he figured I could use some more reminders or something. Maybe my C’s weren’t sounding diminished enough or my blue notes weren’t the exact right shade of blue.

He sort of made it up to me, though, when he sent me a card and compared me to a jazz chord. Nobody had ever done that before and I thought that if I were going to be anything other than me, a jazz chord would maybe be perfect. It was a sweet compliment and he didn’t even mention those jazz hands in that card once.

Though we both knew he could have.