Thomasina and Jane accessories representing portions of personality

I have many, many friends who don’t smoke, except when they drink.

I can manage about a… I have many, many friends who don’t smoke, except when they drink.

I can manage about a drink and a half before I want to bum a guitar from someone.

I was about seven the first time I picked up a guitar. I tried tapes and books, though never lessons; my eldest sister had not made much of her guitar lessons, and my older sister was a failed flutist, and I never had much confidence in my natural ability.

Also, my parents might have been more receptive to the idea of burning money.

I was nearly 19 the first time I picked up a properly tuned guitar. It was my friend’s, and he taught me how to play it on a whim, one night. Twelve-bar-blues, a few chords, and it took about two minutes to surpass my knowledge from the past 12 years.

In true B.B. King fashion, my guitars both have names – Jane, my acoustic, and Thomasina, my Fender Strat. Two-and-a-half years, and my guitars are named. After literary characters, at that.

It seems patently obvious, at least to me, that I was so eager to be a guitarist, not just because it’s fun, challenging and rewarding, but because I wanted some sort of label.

I don’t think I tend to embrace cliches, but in this case, I did so swiftly. And while I certainly was expressing my affection for my guitars, which are perhaps my only truly valued material possessions, I was also displaying my guitarist-ness. “Look at me, I take this seriously.”

Yes, people get introduced, to Jane, mostly, because Thomasina requires an amplifier and an outlet. It’s not enough for me to simply carry the guitar case. No one is in doubt as to whether I play, but still, “This is Jane.”

A friend of mine said that she thought spring’s arrival let people’s personalities shine through, because the warmth allowed people to be outside and to dress as they liked. I dismissed this, despite the fact that Pittsburgh winters tend to make everybody look like marshmallow thieves with their loot stashed inside their clothes.

However, it’s very likely that you’ll see Jane and me on the Cathedral of Learning lawn. But why the Cathedral lawn? Contrary to popular belief, it’s not the only patch of grass in Oakland. It is, however, the most visible.

From concert T-shirts to sports teams’ hats to patches on a backpack, we all tend to advertise our interests. Part of it involves wanting to be unique, to not look like someone else or like part of a defined group.

But at the same time, I’m probably saying, “If you like guitar, you might like me.”

I certainly wouldn’t walk up to a total stranger and try to be friendly, and few people would. But these advertised interests give others an excuse to approach us. An article of clothing might inspire a stranger to say, “That’s cool, where did you get that?”

I’m sure you’ve heard someone say, “I don’t need clothes to define my personality.” I’m sure you’ve said it yourself. And it’s true. Your material appearance doesn’t define you, but it provides hints to others about who you might be.

Sometimes it’s deliberate. I’ll wear my best suit to a job interview to let potential employers know how responsible I am. In truth, the suit cost me $8.50 at Goodwill, and my potential employers will not be privy to this. Unless, of course, they read The Pitt News, but I’m betting they just do the crossword, like everyone else.

Even my watch provides a subject for furtive, getting-to-know-you chitchat. Someone I barely know made note of my watch, saying that men with large wristwatches are clearly compensating. And the five or six men who happened to be there all put their watches on display, playing a joke. One said he didn’t wear a watch. “Whoa, what does that mean?”

So it’s not the most amusing observation in the world, but for a moment, I was comfortable with a group of people I had only just met. Because of a watch.

Sure, it’s superficial to say that the way a person looks impacts the way we react to them. But it’s true. At home, Jane is my baby. But when I take her out on the town, she’s partly an accessory.

Jane has long been a conversation starter, and most of the conversations go the same way:

“Oh, how long have you been playing?”

“Can you play _______?”

“I’ve always wanted to play guitar.”

Sometimes the conversation fizzles out, but sometimes the advertisement works. One similar interest reveals many others.

My guitar playing doesn’t define me; it merely advertises one aspect of who I am.

Quite simply, I put a part of myself on display, like a movie trailer. If it appeals to you, take it as a welcome.

I feel charming. Oh, so charming. It’s alarming how charming I feel. E-mail: mflaherty@pittnews.com.