They're Writing Songs of Love, But Not For Me

Being on 43 Things really is helping me define my goals. They suggest mixing up the bigs with the littles, the realistic with the unrealistic, and boy am I.

Since the first time I listed my goals for the rest of my life on this site, I have been including "Sing in public" or "sing in public again." So then, you might say, join the church choir or the civic chorus. But no, I realize, I want to sing by myself, at least part of the time. I want to sing cabaret.

And there's more. According to "Four Weeks, The faintly creepy incredibly materialistic online magazine that's in sync with the rhythm of your life," (guess which four words I added to that description), the week leading up to your period is one of indulgence and introspection. I would add anger and despair, but that's harder to place products for. Other than guns.

Anyway! To indulgence and introspection let's add navel-gazing and self-pity, and go to town. How do I put this? No one thinks my singing is as good as I do, except my parents. And I don't think it's that great, honestly! I know Ergo is a better singer than I am, and my friend CW, and RG who sings in people's living rooms, and VV who has a band...but I'm okay, really. Better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick. Once upon a time, people clapped. I had the lead in the 8th grade musical, and again when I was a senior in high school. I had a couple of solos in my a capella group. They let me in to the geometrically shaped musical comedy group.

We have an annual adult sleepover party here, inspired by Peter's Friends. (Although someone pointed out that no one ever comes out in the middle of our party. Never say never!) I call it Country House Weekend, and it features 4-6 couples we've known since college (and one single woman who never wants to come any more), fancy dinner, parlor games, and Sunday brunch. As I had hoped, my Emmy-winning friend BK sat down to tickle my new ivories (hmm, that sounds kinky). I shamelessly slipped him my current favorite, "What Are You Doing New Year's Eve?" and he schmaltzed it up in his typical fashion. I have to say I'm in pretty good voice these days. Mid-thirties is when your voice is completely mature, my voice teacher told me at 16. The piano's out of tune in a flat, easier-to-hit-the-high-notes fashion. That song doesn't have the biggest range. When we finished, no one said anything. "Hey, you're sounding good," or "That was fun," or "More, please," or really anything. I may be paranoid, but to me silence says "Man, did that stink! Maybe it will go away if I stay very still."

*Sigh* So why would a bar full of strangers want to hear me sing torch songs? And where would I find such a bar, around here? And what is wrong with me that I want love as much as I want singing? Don't get me wrong, I love to sing, purely for the feeling of it. When I'm alone in the house you bet I sit down at the piano and belt out a few good ones. There's nothing like it. But I'd like to experience applause again before I die. Is that so wrong?