Tuesday, January 3, 2012

Life is short. Sing in the car!

It's hard to believe that I will meet the blog count of 2011 so early in 2012.  It's a giddy feeling - or it could be the Dr Pepper Ten (for men only, my a$$) I've consumed all day. Are you ready for the dregs of the day in Blog Numero Dos? Let's see.

Confession: I absolutely love singing while I drive. Granted, as a wife, I also control the radio when my husband drives. He lost the right to the radio when he admitted he would listen to a) talk radio or b) Tejano music on his 75-mile commute to work because that allowed him "to think." Puh-lease.  That would only provoke me to either think hateful thoughts about her:

or him:

and friends and fellow Facebookers know how much I want to support blonde women and William Shatner - especially his musical career.   It all makes perfect sense - at least to me - so I choose the music (and I have no control issues at all.) ;)

As a teen in the 80s, I'd put on the gorgeous vinyl and plastic AM/FM radio headphones that resembled techno earmuffs before firing up the riding lawnmower to landscape the back 9. It looked something like this: 

(Okay.  I was actually in high school and had ear sweat pouring down my red face as I basted myself for skin cancer.)

Anyway, my parents (who never sang anywhere - EVER) were the first to recognize how much I loved to sing along with Duran Duran, Pat Benatar, Cyndi Lauper, Queen, Madonna.  Nothing touches a Dad more than the sound of mower blades chucking limestone and branches across the yard (before the blades bent) while his only daughter belts out "Like a virgin. . .touched for the VERY FIRST TIME!" as he sits in the den trying to read the paper.  Mindful of your self-esteem issues (not everyone can wear stirrup pants, shoulder pads and jelly shoes and look adorable), those kind, loving parents mention it at dinner and you realize you won't be appearing on MTV anytime soon. Thankfully,  you escape to your room,  tune them out and pray for the day you get your own car. 

Why? In your car, you took center stage.  Whether it was the vintage muscle car, grandpa's old pickup or a baby blue Ford Pinto (yes, I was that cool),  your solo career dreams could flourish. Your commanding presence and vocal stylings would bring an audience to tears (unlike Dad's watery eyes as he took the blades off the Craftsman. Again).   Were we supposed to outgrow that? If so. . .OOPS. 

Granted, as a mature, responsible adult behind the wheel, you know proper driving procedure. All bets are off, though, when you name that tune in 3 notes or less.  Then, as the vocal Olympics begin, you notice the guy in the car next to you.  You know. That guy. For him, the driver of the Audi next to your moderately priced late model used car at the stop light, you are the reason to change lanes as quickly as possible.  We won't go into great detail about what your children think when you belt out Steve Perry, Freddie Mercury or Katy Perry as you drive them to school.  Add some dance moves and watch them visibly shrink. It's a beautiful thing.  

If it's been awhile since you serenaded the general public from the comfort of your coupe, sedan or SUV,  I encourage you in the spirit of the new year to give it a try. Channel your inner Reba, Adele, Bruno Mars or Cee Lo (as long as you don't rewrite John Lennon lyrics). Granted, it's a bit more risky with the windows rolled down, but life is too short NOT to do something that makes you feel better - either through music that gets you out of a bad mood, or songs that suit the darkness in your soul (at least for the next 3.5 minutes.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to run a quick errand. . .with Steve.


No comments:

Post a Comment