My big dread in life is of making a fool of myself in front of others.  I can't think of anything worse than to have people laughing at me.  Some people seemingly have no such worries.  It must be nice to be that full of confidence.

I think of the lady who asked Marjorie to play some heavy classical music for the background to a comical skit that she wanted to do at the Gold and Green Ball.  No practice beforehand was necessary, she said.  She had done this before, and it had brought the house down.

She appeared in a tight-fitting, gold dress.  Her figure was not one that became such attire.  We were all embarrassed before she even opened her mouth, and politely ducked our heads.  Marjorie began playing the background music.  The lady pretended to be an opera singer.  She was nowhere near the right pitch, and hadn't a clue about the tune.  She was loud, very far off key, and very embarrassing.  No one laughed.  We were all too embarrassed.  I don't recall how it ended.  The lady is long gone now, but this is the legacy by which she is remembered.

Marjorie's ability as a piano accompanist got her into a similar situation which was even worse.  Unlike the lady in the gold dress who pretended to sing opera, this one really thought that she could.  She had a voice that could knock you out of your seat.

The Relief Society decided that there was lots of hidden talent in the ward, and that for their upcoming program they would like to feature sisters not normally heard from.  In Marjorie's words, "They scoured the ward looking for those with the least abilities to sing."  That was her impression.  Their prize find was the unheralded opera singer.

The opera singer wanted to practice with Marjorie, and came to our home.  As she belted out the first notes, all the children came running.  They doubled over with laughter.  Marjorie had never seen the music before, and made mistakes, which mistakes were compounded by her own giggling.  The lady saw the children laughing, and said reassuringly, "Don't worry, your mother will get this."

Marjorie needed both hands to play the piano, but managed to wave her left one threateningly at her rude children.  They understood, and obediently disappeared behind the couch where they crouched, giggled, and convulsed in silence.  The lady had power, but was a half pitch off.

The situation got progressively worse.  Another practice was held at the church.  Marjorie noticed that there were a number of women in the room as the practice began.  The opera singer blasted out the first notes.  When Marjorie looked up again, the room was empty.  The ladies had all bolted for the door, but Marjorie was stuck.

Came the night of the performance.  The lady's husband and son were on the front row.  As the rendition began, Marjorie got the giggles.  Under no circumstance could she let the husband and son see her giggling.  She strove to hold it in.  There was probably no worry of them seeing Marjorie, however, because both of them bowed  their heads and stared at the floor.  The son busied himself by rolling and unrolling his tie while studiously examining the carpet.  Marjorie was desperate.  Her emotion was such that it had to come out somewhere.  It came out her eyes.  Tears streamed down her face.  At the end of the performance the lady turned to thank her, saw the tears, and said consolingly, "Oh, that's the way that song always affects me, too."

Confidence to the point of being oblivious is probably not a good thing.