Late the other night my husband and I were sitting together in the living room. We were side by side on the couch, each with our respective laptops on our laps, working and writing contentedly. (That counts as hanging out together, right?)
“You’ve got to see this,” he said with a smile.
He turned his computer towards me and started this video:
I was amazed at the courage it took for someone to do this in what appears to be a baggage collection area at LAX – and by the total lack of response from anyone around.
When the video was over he said, “That’s what it’s like being in public with you, sometimes, you know.”
I think I must have look surprised.
I knew that I had moves, of course, but not ones that I generally displayed in airports or other public venues. I am more of a kitchen and living room dancer.
“Only with you,” he continued, “it’s singing.”
Huh. Perhaps not so very surprising, after all.
Because when I am busting my moves in the house, I am always singing along to my oh, so creative choreography. I have written before about my tendency to burst into song whenever a song demands. Or whenever I am in the car. Or someone else is singing. Just whenever.
My mind flashed back to all the hours I have spent in the passenger seat as he drove, turning up the “Oh! I love this song!” and singing and bouncing in my seat through traffic, oblivious to the stares of other motorists.
I recalled strolling through the grocery store beside him as he pushed the cart, singing along with the oldies music that they were playing over the loudspeaker. People probably looked up from sniffing their produce as we walked past.
I remembered the summer party when the DJ started playing ‘Callin’ Baton Rouge’ by Garth Brooks and I sang along gleefully. (And Glee? Don’t even get me started.)
My husband, ever-loving and patient, would simply smile and occasionally shake his head.
I took singing lessons many years ago, but I was terrified of singing in front of people. My throat would close, I would run out of breath and my voice would shake and crack. However, when I was at home or in the car or goofing around – I could sing. There was no pressure.
Then one day, years ago, I found this:
It’s supposed to be a coaster, but it has never held a drink. It has had a place of honour somewhere in our home, no matter where we have roamed.
And then I found that it was part of a longer quote:
It became a sort of mantra for me. It’s not about singing and dancing. It’s about life.
Even though you’re scared, do it anyway.
Take the pressure off and just have fun.
That’s why I sing; I sing like nobody’s listening.
So – just in case we ever hang out together – you’ve been warned. Although I am successful at holding my songs in. (Most of the time.)