I like to play around on the piano, though I’m no pro. What I don’t enjoy is pausing to turn pages, or worse, spreading them out and propping them up in front of me. Pages fly every time the air conditioner kicks in. For some songs that’s fine, but who really wants to hear page six of Hey Jude?

Point is, I needed a solution. And that’s what I got—or so I thought—when my wife gifted me a pair of AirPods with a built-in motion sensor. Yes, this is a real thing. Engineering nerds know it as an accelerometer. I don’t care what it’s called as long as it’ll help me turn the music pages hands-free. Paper sheet music, be gone!

First attempt: with all the sheet music and song books I never really mastered loaded onto my iPad, and my ears plugged with new technology that allows me to connect and scroll pages via Bluetooth, I launched into a Sara Bareilles tune. The thrill of knowing I could turn the pages with my head was—no, wait. Why, suddenly, was I looking at page three? And now page four? I stopped playing.

I had moved my head, apparently, a bit to the right. Too much enthusiasm. I turned my head left a couple times to turn the pages back but wound up in the middle of a golden moldy tune about troubled waters. So distracting. Okay, I thought, this technology is cool but way too sensitive.

I googled how to reduce sensitivity and got headlines about the importance of masculinity.

Second attempt: after making adjustments, I started in on a new song. As I neared the bottom of page one, I felt the tension rising. Would it work? I gently turned my head to the right. Nothing. I twitched it again, more quickly. Still nothing, so I gave it a hard throw, a real neck snap-jerk!, something just short of a convulsion—and the pages flew by. But instead of page two I was suddenly looking at page four of Don’t Stop Believin’.

Losing patience, I jerked left so hard my glasses flew off. Got the right song but the wrong page. Jerk right! Page three—getting closer. I jerked twice more, hard. OK, I thought. Now I got it. Gotta really snap that neck. Throw the hair sideways, a serious head fake. And then? Once I’m where I want to be, it’s simple. Do. Not. Move.

Until I want to turn a page.

My daughter’s fiancé walked behind me while this was happening and said, “What the hell is wrong with your neck?”

I answered with the catchy chorus notes of Hit the Road Jack, an old Ray Charles tune I have memorized. It’s something my mother played a lot after my dad left.

Third attempt: after tweaking the sensitivity a couple more times, I realized that this technology worked best if I’d sit up straight (so unlike me) and stay perfectly still. Stiff and upright. Show no enjoyment. Do not groove. The musical missionary position. I could look sideways but only if I didn’t budge anything above the shoulders.

I looked like one of those people who think it’s cool to be embalmed in a sitting position so their creepy family can keep them in the corner of the living room for eternity. Seriously, I’ve seen pictures. People do that. And they’re not even at a piano, usually.

Next day: I awoke with a killer neck pain after working through all hundred pages of Bohemian Rhapsody. By the end I’d made two decisions. One: I would never ever learn to play Bohemian Rhapsody. Two: this new technology wasn’t working for me.

Fortunately, I had choices. I knew I could stick with one-page songs, like Happy Birthday, or I could go back to spreading out multiple paper pages and books on a music stand…or I could dump the keyboard and take up the ukulele, something I’d lose interest in even faster than anyone close enough to hear it. Better yet, I found another solution, and it was there all along—at the opposite end of my body.

The answer lay at my feet. In my feet—my left foot, to be specific.

I bought a wireless foot pedal that turns pages with a tap of the toe. It’s what the professional players use. Yes, it required a whole new learning curve: one foot for turning pages, the other foot for pushing the sustain pedal, both hands on the keyboard and eyes on page. That’s a lot to ask—like I said, I’m no pro. But at least I could move my head without looking like I’m having a spasm.

Playing the piano shouldn’t be this hard, I thought. Sure, there are a lot of body parts in motion when it comes to making music. But like sex, it’s not supposed to make anyone sore in the morning.

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Jeff Wallace is a former English and creative writing teacher who plants California natives and pulls weeds in Trabuco Canyon, CA. His publishing credits include the Los Angeles Times, San Diego Union Tribune, Orange County Register, and the anthology I Wanna Be Sedated: 30 Writers on Parenting Teenagers.