When I was in eighth grade (I’ll try not to make this boring), I was the pianist for our middle school chorus. At our grand year-end performance, my page turner dropped the entire score of music on the floor and just sat there. I continued on as far as my memory could take me—which was like two measures—then I stopped, got up, gathered the music while the director stopped the choir, and we started over. I’ll never forget it. The page turner, a lanky pimple faced boy, just watched me suffer through this embarrassment, as did several hundred of my eighth grade peers.

The good thing about this experience is that every time I’ve played since then, I’m able to tell myself, “Self, it can never get worse than that day back in the gym in eighth grade.” I find whenever I’m nervous, self-talk always helps me along.

The things I tell myself usually go like this: What audience could be a more hard-to-impress than 500 New Kids on the Block fans? Nobody is out to get you. Nobody has music in their hands, generally. Nobody is really even paying that much attention to you, as much as you’d like to think. If you’re playing the church offertory (which I think ought to be banned along with all restaurant smoking), people are usually concentrating on trying to unwrap their breath mint discretely more than they care that you just forgot that there was a key change. Really.

So the other night, I’m slated as the background noise to a talented violinist. I looked down to get this tricky part right, and when I looked up, I had no idea where we were. Suddenly, the church sanctuary is filled with teen boy group fans, the pit in my stomach reaches new lows, and my page turner feigns unaccountability.

Thankfully, a little chord theory saved my behind after the initial shock wore off. But instances like last night always set me back a few years. If I break out in I’ll Be Loving You Forever next time I’m up, you’ll know why.