There is a paradox involving time and money. It seems if you have the time to do the things you want to do, you lack the money. On the other hand, if you have the money, there is no time. When I was a girl, there seemed to be little of either. My parents worked for most of my youth, and even when there was money, they spent it to make other money. But there was a time when my mother was home with us. My sister was young, less than pre-school age; my father was working in a way that allowed our lives little luxuries, luxuries like a pet. I remember when, one day, my dad brought home someone’s parakeet, complete with cage. The bird’s name was Cheerio, and Cheerio was so fun! Then there was another day….

My parents had friends, houses where the entire family would visit. In Calgary, our then-home-city, all houses had basements, and seemingly every basement contained some old upright piano those friends of my parents had placed in some area meant for children. I have no memory of how I always seemed to end up next to those pianos, but always I would play them, play these notes I decided went together with what my six-year-old brain thought was a nice sound. One day I heard one of the men ask my father about my music lessons. My dad said I hadn’t taken any lessons, that we didn’t have an instrument. Then I heard the man say, “she’s good, she has natural talent, you should get her a piano.” Sometime after that, there was this accordion sales person who came to our house. Both of my parents were there, and the man placed the accordion on me and showed me those little piano-like keys on the side. I remember liking the keys, but that thing was no piano. Looking back, I’m sure my parents thought a piano was expensive, that it was too big to move around as we had been doing. But after one of us, and I no longer remember who, rejected the accordion, my dad took me to a music store in the mall. I don’t remember that being planned, although I’m sure it had to have been. There he discussed how I needed an instrument, and another sales person placed a small acoustic guitar into my arms. They decided it fit me, and my dad paid for that guitar as I sat watching all the people in the music store. I wish I had a memory of what those people looked like, what they were like, whether they played anything there as people do now, because this time was significant. I can imagine copies of Hendrix, copies of the earliest Zeppelin, but what I knew… was Johnny Cash. My dad got that too, a Johnny Cash songbook, and off we went. Days later, after school, instead of going home, my mother took me my first lesson with my guitar teacher and waited as the teacher explained the guitar, how to hold it, how to begin to play it.

For the next few years, my mother would take me to that teacher. I would practice my guitar faithfully. I learned chords, picking techniques, notes, even music theory, a lot of things for a girl who by then was only in Fourth Grade. That year, Fourth Grade, as the elementary school directed the kids to play recorders, I got to sit in front of the music class and read the accompanying chords from sheet music playing guitar. I loved those moments, moments where I would lead the music class. But those moments would end. First, I got sick, really sick. I was sick for three months. I was too sick to go to school, too sick to sit upright, too sick to play guitar. Then came the final blow. Just as I got well enough to resume guitar lessons, and as my younger sister was set to enter school, my mother got a job. She told me there would be no more guitar lessons because my teacher was moving. As a child I did not question; I did as my parents told me. I understood there would be no more guitar lessons, so no more guitar, that they weren’t going to find a new teacher as there was now … no more time, no more time because my mother was going to go to work to make us more money. That was the first lesson I ever received on the trade-off between time and money because, without lessons, my wonderful acoustic guitar that I was fast-outgrowing began to sit more and more. The guitar was not replaced with a larger one as I grew larger. My own life went on as well. As dance became more serious and time-consuming, as that gave way to college, advanced college, advanced work, and hours and hours spent doing that work, I forgot everything I ever knew about the guitar. I was left as a mere fan, yet loving the guitar just as much as when they first placed it into my hands in that music store when I was six years old – my dad’s perfect substitute for the piano he could not give me.

For me, the last few years have been full of ups and downs. For a while, I was making money, working for a series of people who paid me fairly well, but people who expected time commitments that kept me from enjoying things. I was lucky for that money because my normal self-employment was difficult through these times, but those jobs afforded me little extra time. Now, I’m back to the difficulty of self-employment, and from that the Master of my own time. But with all the time I want to learn and to play, I have little money, or more fittingly inconsistent money, so luxuries are impossible. I had a guitar, a simple one I bought right before I began to work that phase of “employment.” I played it some, but not enough. I’m not sure why, but perhaps it just wasn’t special enough for me. Or perhaps I need things to be impossible; who knows? What I see in my head, what I want, even if it seems impossible, is to be like my inspirations, my current inspirations, and most of those seem to involve a Gibson Les Paul. So with some help, and tons of reading, I learned about Gibson Les Pauls, and that seemed to be it, the guitar that I had to have, the guitar that would complete the circle that ended when I was in Fourth Grade when life ended my guitar playing. But how does one who is starting over, who is barely hanging on, … buy a Gibson Les Paul? And would I even like them?

I asked myself that question as I set out to Guitar Center, you know that store I’m terrified of, to just check out what it’s like to play them, or in my case, to hold one and play a G-chord — the only chord I actually remembered from childhood. First, I went to Sam Ash, across the street from the Hollywood Guitar Center, really because I was working up to Guitar Center. The Gibsons were on the wall, accessible by reaching up a bit. The sales people allowed me to try various models, none of which were that wine-red color I liked from the Internet, telling me I had to order the wine-red guitar to actually see it. Mind you, a female holding a guitar, without accompanying a boyfriend whom she’s keeping company while he looks at guitars, produces conversation from almost everyone around you. One particular male shopper, or shopper-lurker as I’ve seen to be the case with these guys, asked me if I play. I said I was just learning. He asked me if I was going to buy a Les Paul, like that was the funniest thing ever for a beginner to buy a Les Paul, and I said, simply, “probably, I like it.” That prompted this guy to say out loud for all the store patrons and workers to hear in some voice that sounded worse than actual laughter, “you don’t know how to play, and you’re going to buy a Les Paul?” That was pretty much it for me. I said one word: “yes.” And with that, I had to buy a Les Paul. Better yet, I decided I will learn to play it in such a way that makes the Les Paul proud, thinking in my head, “hell yes, I am!” But how? How in this time of time and no money?

So after this attraction of way more attention than I would ever want, I walked across Sunset Boulevard to Guitar Center. And unlike Sam Ash, up on the wall was the guitar I liked from the pictures on-line, the wine-red, slightly lesser model down from those super-expensive $3,000 ones, called a Studio II, retail price $1,399 (discounted as always from $1,800ish). And I thought it was so gorgeously perfect in every way. I think it’s last year’s model, although new, and packed with features, including a power boost, good tuning nobs, as good as a Standard, just without that binding on the edges. A very nice sales person asked me if I needed any help. I asked to see the wine-red Les Paul, and he got it down from the very high hanger it was on. He let me hold it and play my G-chord for a very long time. I didn’t plug it into anything, despite him saying I could at least five times. I admitted I was a new player, and his reaction was wonderful. He said I should get it, he said having a fabulous instrument will make me want to play it more, and that I would play it. He seemed to believe in what I was doing. I told him I had no real money to buy it, and he said he’d let me put it on layaway, that it was supposed to be paid in 30 days, but that he’d work with me if it took me longer. I spent a long time there, not caring about anyone around me, but in the end, I gave it back to him. Mind you, I began negotiations, pointing out that the guitar had a little scuff on the back, and asked if he would discount it, you know just like I do in those discount clothing stores I shop in when a dress has a lipstick mark on it. He told me, he’d give me 10% off. He reiterated the layaway option, as he placed the guitar back on the hanger up near the roof. I didn’t want to give it back though. It seemed so right. I said that too, that it seemed comfortable. He said that’s the way it works. That one will feel right. He said that particular one had been set up by some person affiliated with them who does good work. Still, I left him to do his job, feeling like the guitar had gone into the category of my window-shopping at Tiffany, and I went home. But it weighed on me. This was not window shopping at Tiffany, and if I could only figure out how to get the money, I’d play this guitar, I really would. After all, I have the time!

Then I thought… I have tons of stuff; I have furniture to spare; I have things I don’t want, and I could sell those things. I could get close to paying for this guitar just with stuff. So that next Sunday morning, bright and early Guitar Center time, I arrived at their door, waiting with two other people to get into the store as they first opened. I found the same man who had helped me, and I told him I wanted to take him up on that layaway offer. So he took the guitar down. He got the case, this beautiful case with fuzzy lining that looked as pretty as the guitar, and he rang up the sale, with the down payment price of $250.

Then I went on to the selling-things part of my plan. Now, mind you, I’ve never sold anything because my stuff, even the stuff I don’t want, I get attached to. So because I was new to selling, it took research on how to sell stuff. I made a list of what could go… the old guitar, a daybed that takes up too much room, vintage 1980s top of the line JBL speakers that also take up too much room, a 1970s Marantz stereo amplifier that came with the house, a drawing table, a desk. In this process, I decided I’ll part with things that are getting in the way of decorating my house and I’ll get my Les Paul. I researched prices, I took photos, and I made ads, all placed on Craigslist. I cleaned and cleaned and placed all the articles into one room, rearranging half the house to do it. In that arrangement, I grew to actually want these things gone because what the house will look like without them will be so much better in arrangement and appeal.

I got immediately lucky. Four hits came on the speakers within the first weekend. Apparently, vintage speakers are all the rage. But let me tell you, those were the strangest of all the people, so strange that they kept emailing even after things were sold. I got $25 less than my $300 asking price for the speakers. A man picked them up, with the intention of selling them with others in a container headed for Vietnam where the speakers will be rebuilt and then resold. During that weekend, another person offered me a trade of a Marantz turntable and four bookshelf speakers for the Marantz amplifier. I thought I’d take that, pair it with another receiver I had bought for my self-Christmas present in 2012 intending to power my speakers which I used only on that Christmas Day, then afterwards didn’t, so I accepted that trade. Not understanding modern stereos though, I learned that the receiver wouldn’t power the turntable because it lacked the turntable input. That guy offered me a vintage receiver for $50 he said would work, so I parted with $50 of the money from the JBL speakers I sold to get the vintage receiver. I was now up $250 and one complete stereo which I originally intended to sell as an intact vintage stereo. Mind you, breaking my rule of taking on more “stuff” as well as my original intention to sell the in-tact vintage stereo, I’ve kept that stereo because it’s totally awesome too and lets me play records. A few days later, the daybed sold, giving me $140, and a very happy customer who loved this daybed. At this point, I thought I’d found a new calling of stereo and furniture sales, but then I ran into a series of bad luck. I had two people express interest in my desk, my one high-priced item — a custom-made reception desk that was in my pre-recession office, but both sales never materialized. Still, I got money from walking a dog, all paid at once for the entire month. Realizing I might spend all of this money if it continued to sit, I took the money produced from the sale of the speakers (reduced by my effort in getting a different stereo), plus the money from the sale of the daybed, and half the money from walking the dog to Guitar Center and paid it towards the layaway on the guitar. I brought my guitar there too to see what it could bring as a sale. They offered $200 for it, and that was after I kept asking for more and because my person was helping me. My now-constant salesperson contact there said I should try to sell it on Craigslist only he didn’t know I had been trying. I decided to hang onto it and keep trying because I needed more money than $200.

About one week later came a Guitar Center email promoting a Father’s Day sale. I get many emails from Guitar Center, but I open only about half of them. For some reason, I opened this one and, much to my surprise, it featured my guitar model on sale for $200 off! I calculated what I thought I had left to pay. At that sales price, if I could get Guitar Center to purchase my old electric guitar for that same $200 they had offered, I would need about $137. In my mad-money area, I still had $100 from that dog-walking gig payment, so that left $37 to pay, money I could part with. So Saturday before Father’s Day, I printed the advertisement, dressed in a cute dress, and headed to Guitar Center. Mind you, I had to turn back because I forgot my headband, and this scary transaction at the scary Guitar Center would require my headband. You see headbands give me confidence; they are the closest thing to a real crown one can actually wear, and when I wear them in this non-functional way that I do — on the top of my head as decoration with all of my hair hanging down around one — it really does feel like I’m wearing a crown. So with my headband I had gone home to get, and all the confidence I could muster, I went the “check” area in the front — this counter where they have people on both sides that greet people but whose function is really to make sure nobody steals anything, and I asked for my constant helper. The two people at the counter were female, both with bleached hair and tattoos, and both looked at me like I was about the most wrong thing to ever come into Guitar Center. Apparently, they aren’t fans of headbands. After learning my person wasn’t there, I was glad I had that headband on because the person I explained my needs to brought me the manager. Wearing my headband and little dress, I explained to the manager that I wanted a sale price on the guitar on layaway, that I wanted a discount for the scuff, that I had another credit on layaway, that I had a guitar in my car I wanted to sell, how the price should be $200, and that I’d pay the little bit of the difference and take the guitar. So one by one, the people the manager directed to handle each phase did each of those transactions. They applied the credit to the layaway. They purchased my guitar for $200. They gave me that money in cash. They applied the sale price to the guitar. They applied the scratch discount, ooing and awing the the final price for the guitar would be $1,080, plus tax. They told me my balance: $337. I paid the $200 from the guitar sale, the $100 of the dog-walking money, and $37 on my debit card. And then, two and half hours later, remember I’m made of time, with each one of those transactions except the final payment getting manager approval, and with my accounting perfectly correct, they produced my, and now it really was my, Gibson Les Paul. And it was special, that special I had wanted, even better than when my dad got me my first guitar when I was six years old in that other music store in the mall. Who knows, perhaps that’s the reason for Guitar Center’s Father’s Day sale in the first place, some Karmic connection to my dad and that first guitar he got for me, the final solution to the money time paradox, indeed a break to my money time paradox, letting me have an expensive guitar just when I have the time to really devote to learning, really learning. Oh, and it is a Les Paul! If it were possible to find that dude in Sam Ash, I’d go tell him that I did it! I got my Les Paul. No more laughing now! Okay, sure he’s not around anymore, and I wouldn’t even recognize him if I saw him, but …

As I walked to the check-desk later that Saturday-before-Father’s-Day and opened my guitar to those same girls who had looked at me slightly funny earlier that day simply because they aren’t used to girls with headbands-as-crowns shopping at Guitar Center, I realized I am no longer scared of Guitar Center. Oh and fighting the urge to ask what they thought of my headband now, but instead, with the best ballerina posture possible while carrying a heavy case and headband positioned just as it needed to be, I placed my guitar up on the table for them to check it out, and I just smiled … with the obvious, unstated words, “I play a Les Paul!”