I am not what you'd call a singer.
I am not even what a deaf person would call a singer.
It's a shame really, because there's nothing I love more than to belt it out, but whenever I do the water runs cold and the soap tends to melt. It's unlikely I'll ever attain any kind of vocal skill either, as I long ago decided - because important decisions such as these are necessary to clear up early in life - that if I was suddenly, magically, granted the choice between great beauty (or hell, even moderate beauty) and great vocal ability, I'd choose the former.
After all, I can still dance, right?
Still, not being a triple-threat has always niggled a bit. I've tread my fair share of the theatrical boards, and I can put a shimmy and a shake together without knocking anyone over, but I've never managed to warble anything better than a croaky Happy Birthday. I understand this. I'm fully cognizant of the fact that when my voice should be high, it's squeaky, and when it should be low, it's flat, and when it should in tune, it tends to not be.
So there you go. There's the history. How, how that translated to my voluntarily putting my name next to Gloria Gaynor's last night, and warbling out I Will Survive in front of all and sundry can only be attributed to the fact that my favourite sound in the world is applause, and I needed a fix.
I've sung before, of course, after a couple of drinks, a quick scan of the place to make sure there's was no eligible bachelor around, and a quiet bribe to the karaoke guy to adjust the levels so my voice was a background vocal to the instrumental. I've even done it in the privacy of a friend's home, during a rousing game of Karaoke Revolution.
(Quick aside here... Someone did a fantastic interpretive dance that night of the Revolution, and oh how we laughed and enjoyed it. Later on, Bootylicious came on, and I joked about doing my own interpretive flow, and was promptly told to put my money where my mouth was. I would have done it, I totally would have worked it... except then, like a deer in headlights, I caught sight of the lyrics on the television screen and me and my broken ears were totally entranced. "Wait a second, wait a second! That's what they're saying?! And there I stood, awed by discovery, and statue-still. Interpretive dance, my booty. And oh how they jeered, but honestly... jelly? That's what they were saying?)
Anyway. So there we are. I went out last night with a few friends, and I didn’t have attention-getting make-up on, and my décolletage was on its most modest behaviour, and I didn’t smoke, or drink (more than two Glenlivets in 5 hours) or flirt with strange boys. Hell, I wasn’t even encouraged!
It was to be a evening of hockey, and chit chat, and home to bed. But suddenly, the game was over, and there was a screen and some girl giving us her very best Cranberries… and something just came over me. I don’t know, maybe it was all the wedding talk amongst the wives and fiancées, or maybe it was because I couldn’t tolerate the idea that I went out on a Saturday night without 7 coats of soul-inspiring mascara on, or maybe… Maybe I am just So Tired of being So Bored all the time lately.
I don’t know. But there it is. Suddenly, though all fault of my own, there was a microphone in my shaking hand, and I was greeting my audience with a lame joke, and shaking my hips and moving my lips and sound was coming out and at the end more than four people clapped and goddammit but applause is awesome, isn’t it?
I am not what you’d call a singer. But now, I’m not what you’d call a chicken either.
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