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The Stories I Tell Myself

By on March 1, 2020
The Stories I Tell Myself

By Kathryn Chavez

“An RV Park? Really??”  That was my husband’s reaction when I looked up the address of our most recent gig. “Yep,” I replied, “but it’s a luxury RV park!” I was trying to put an exciting spin on it, but secretly I was skeptical.

I recalled a similar incident from several years ago, when we were hired for a gig under the impression it was for a large formal gala. We were so excited to do such a classy gig, looking forward to ice carvings, vodka fountains, and an open bar. But what we got instead was a tiny casino that no one had ever heard of, far outside the city limits. The showroom carpeting was ripped everywhere, the stage was pitifully sagging, and instead of fine china and ice buckets, we got paper plates and picnic coolers.

So, the words “Luxury RV Park” were a stretch, and we weren’t holding our breath this time.

The booking agent informed us that we would be playing for a motorcycle club at their annual dinner in the clubhouse of this RV Park. I silently freaked out just a bit (and may have started looking for my pepper spray).

We decided to scout out the location ahead of time to see what we were in for. It wasn’t far from our house, but it was nearly impossible to find. Google Maps couldn’t even find it. I was thinking to myself, geez, how many “luxury RV parks” could there be? But with one more right turn, there it was: the world’s longest driveway, leading up to a guard box, adjacent to a huge gate that I just know came from Buckingham Palace. Towering palms flanked the entire entrance, and I could see that the whole park behind the gate was filled with high-end RV’s, situated amongst fountains, tropical waterfalls, and exotic landscaping. Hmm…it didn’t exactly scream Harley’s, bandanas, and leather jackets, but I still needed proof that I wasn’t playing a gig for a Hell’s Angels rally.

The night of the gig, we arrived early and were promptly directed to the clubhouse, where we immediately started unloading to set up on stage. The caterer and bartender were systematically getting their stations ready, plugging things in, and setting tables with what looked like actual dinnerware. The place was already filling up and I was surprised to see that most of the members of this nefarious “motorcycle club,” were retirees and married couples in their 50’s and 60’s, wearing shirts proudly displaying “Road Hawgs.”  My previous visions of hardened, leather-wearing bikers were replaced with the friendly faces of retired accountants, lawyers, moms and dads.

Misplaced Assumption #1: I am certain I know how people and situations will present themselves, based on the stories I tell myself about my past experiences.

We started our first set with a mix of vocals and instrumentals, while everyone lined up for the buffet, looking our way with nods of approval. So far, so good! We cranked out everything from Stevie Wonder, to Stevie Nicks, from Disco to Alternative. In the middle of “Don’t Stop Believing” a request written on a folded napkin was quietly placed at our feet by a much older gentleman. On it, he asked if the “lady singer” would sing some Country music. Let me just say, I am not a fan of Country music, and I know a total of two Country songs on a good day. The last Country song I sang was a duet with another singer, and it fell apart because he forgot the words, and started asking the audience to sing along. Awkward.

So, I had a silent meltdown for about sixty seconds, took a sip of water, and straightened the straps on my dress. I was running out of stall tactics. That man was staring at me, patiently waiting for his song.  Now, there was one Country tune I loved and knew, a song from 1970 by Lynn Anderson. It was obscure, but it was all I had at that moment. I signaled my husband to start the song, which had a dramatic orchestral intro. “I beg your pardon,” I cautiously sang.  “I never promised you a rose garden…” And someone in the back let out a “Whoo Hoo!” Alcohol-fueled or not, that “Whoo Hoo” brought instant relief, and I belted out the next line with more confidence. The dance floor suddenly populated with a mix of appreciative dancers, some with approving thumbs up, others just singing along. OMG, I thought. I was so convinced that I would bomb that song, that no one would know it, and that I would be singing to an empty dance floor (which is the worst feeling in the world). But instead, it was just the opposite! These people knew this song, and they were loving it!

Misplaced Assumption #2.  I know that I will be judged for not measuring up, based on the stories I tell myself about my past experiences.

By 12:30 am, we were packed up and getting ready to leave. The agent had already paid us, so we were surprised when the clubhouse manager approached us with an envelope in his hand. “One of the Road Hawgs wanted me to give this to you,” he said. We looked at each other, slightly alarmed, and my husband thanked the manager and tucked the envelope away in his gig bag.  On our way home, we were still energized from the gig and decided to get a beer. The bar was fairly packed with a lot of customers, most of whom were service industry workers, ending their shifts from their jobs.

“So, what’s in that envelope?” I asked, bracing myself for God knows what. “A letter of complaint?”  My husband slowly peered inside, and said, “Holy s**t!  There’s $500 cash in here!” There was also a handwritten note from a very grateful attendee, thanking us for the variety of music we played and for making the party a success. I gaped at my husband. In past gigs, we might have gotten tipped $20… maybe $40 if we were lucky. I immediately felt such a rush of gratitude. It wasn’t just because of the $500 tip from a grateful party-goer. It was also because I realized how much impact we have in doing what we love: singing and performing, connecting with people and knowing that we can bring some joy and fun to others. To bring that much happiness to even one person makes it all so worth it.

Misplace Assumption #3. People take me for granted and do not reward me for sharing my talents, based on the stories I tell myself about my past experiences.

When I look at these “misplaced assumptions,” it’s really a fancy phrase for something else: Fear.  I allowed fear to not only live in my subconscious mind but also to be the force behind my beliefs and my perceptions about my environment. Fear has played a role in how I define my comfort zone, making me question the safety of new experiences and new ideas. Fear has been the force behind prejudices, stereotyped thinking, and personal pride. Fear has been the ‘Well-Meaning Friend,’ living in my head and warning me of the imaginary pitfalls I should be worried about. Fear wants to protect me; yet, fear has also hurt me with emotional paralysis, anxiety, and just straight-up lies.
Fear will always try to worm its way into our lives, to take over our thoughts and feelings, to influence us with beliefs that are rarely ours. So, what’s the cure? While there’s no guarantee that fear won’t keep nagging us with its agenda, we can give it less time in the spotlight. By connecting and engaging with each other, we can find out what is true, what is real, what is factual, and what is a misplaced assumption.

 

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kcKathryn Chavez is a professional vocalist, recording artist and intuitive guide living in Las Vegas, Nevada.  For over 20 years, she has coached other women in singing, speaking, and presenting, and teaching them to find courage through their intuition and their voices. She can be found online at https://www.kathrynchavez.club/ on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/KathrynChavezClub/?modal=admin_todo_tour and on Instagram at https://www.instagram.com/kathrynchavezclub/

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