Tuesday, April 27, 2010
I am tone deaf, can't carry a tune in a bucket, couldn't hit a high C (or any other, for that matter) if it slapped me in the face, and am more like Meadow Soprano than a mezzo soprano (whatever that means).
In short, I can't sing to save my life.
Note I said "can't," not "don't." Because I sing all the time. I don't let minor things like talent, or skill, or humiliation stop me.
I did when I was younger. And wisely so. I may have rocked through the '80s in middle and high school singing in my room, and later in my car (OK, my friends' cars. I didn't have a car — or a driver's license — until college.) — but never on the stage. Oh sure, I was in the drama club (Really, with the surprise on that? Really?), but I favored and won the dramatic or comedic or even dramedic roles. Never the musical ones, because I knew better than to audition for them.
I have absolutely no desire to revisit my adolescence. It was awkward enough the first time around. But ... But ... If there were any way to go back and actually have the voice that I've always wished for — the kind of voice that brings an audience to its feet (and not to walk out) and tears to its eyes (for all the right reasons) and makes my peers (if anyone really could be my peer) so envious they have no choice but to misguidedly express it by throwing a Slushee® in my face — I'd do it in 4:4 time (whatever that means) and be more obnoxious than Rachel Berry dared dream to be.
But alas! No matter how fervently I wish for that alternate reality, it shall never be. My only hope to even approach that level of musical fulfillment would be to create an imaginary friend through whom I vicariously rock.
And what rational, sane, mature adult would be so desperate, er, silly, um, absolutely brilliant willing to do that?
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