I was dressed in the color of my favorite keys on the piano. Black.

They are my favorite keys because about the only song I can play perfectly is the one where you make a fist and then roll it up on the FG and A sharps and hit C sharp and then reverse the process hitting D sharp, lastly, on the way down.

The clothing, simply, matched my mood.

If I had had the chance to swill down a couple bottles of wine at the prerecital reception, I would have. Except I was late, I was shaking and I knew I'd spill. I was, frankly, beyond terrified. I always am when I have to play in front of people.

I was also twice as tall as every one of the other performers — who were good. Let's not even burden the times tables trying to figure out how much older I was than all of them.

Let's just say that this was my third piano recital in 40 years — the first of those being about 40 years ago. You'd think I'd get over my fears. I haven't.

When I restarted lessons, about two years ago at a youthful 55, I swore up and down that I'd never play in a recital again as long as I lived. I have this hideous and humiliating memory of trying out for the Seattle Youth Symphony Orchestra — actually, it was the adjudicated tryouts to even be able to try out for the orchestra. I didn't care. There were people there and there were judges there. And I was in utter shock. Even before the fun began.

I played "Clair de Lune," by Claude Debussy.

How did I do?

Here is the nutshell synopsis of one of the judges: "You have a beautiful technique and great musicality. But I had no idea Debussy wrote two versions of 'Clair de Lune.' "

I will pursue that no further here, for I'd be sued if I told you my piano history before that moment. Suffice it to say that when I was scared out of my wits, I would just make up stuff — like classical music.

So there I was, earlier this month, seated once more in front of the love-hate monster, ready to play for a small assemblage of parents, family, friends and my piano teacher, Seattle's own Scott Warrender, pianist, composer, director and noted author of several musicals. Who, in his wily way, had talked me into performing.

"Hey, it's fun. You'll be fine. And the kids really need to see a role model."

Me?

"Yes. Um, besides. All my other adult students dropped out of the recital."

Why me? Why not reconstitute Beethoven's remains?

Catatonic, I practiced my two pieces for weeks. One of them was this little Spanish ditty, so insipidly perky that I was even editing stories to its keystrokes at work.

The other, "Embraceable You," by George Gershwin, would be sung by Mimi MacLeod, a pro and a friend of mine and Warrender's. (After our first and only rehearsal, we went out and had two martinis apiece. What does that tell you?)

Third on the program, I made it through the first piece, though I don't know how. I don't remember a thing. I do remember that I forgot to do every single thing Warrender had coached me on over and over again.

Then, to wrap up the afternoon recital, I waded through "Embraceable You." At least, in that, I could hide behind a gorgeous voice, which I did.

And that was that. The recital was over. I got my certificate along with the others. And we all got our official class photo — which, by the way, confirmed that I was indeed twice as tall as my fellow students.

But even before I could relish one moment of blessed relief, bask in the hope that I'd never, ever have to do this again, my smiling teacher approached me: "Now, for the next recital, you can really get to work on 'Rhapsody in Blue'!"

Does anyone know whether there are two versions?