Their weren't very many people there yet. Mostly just me and my entourage. And by entourage I mean family and friends who are required to support me in making a fool of myself. The band was playing random songs to keep the vibe up, but there hadn't been any takers yet. As we trailed in, cramming into a vinyl booth, I looked around frantically for the drink my cousin had promised. I needed the liquid courage for what I was about to do. The hostess stopped at our table, she was poured into leggings and high heeled boots and walked with a confidence of someone who knows she is sexy and owns it. Luckily for me, she was also incredibly nice.
"Who's singing?" She declared with a clap of her hands. My friends basically shoved me forward out of the safety of anonymity. I sheepishly agreed and explained that it was my first time. "You're first time with a live band?" Uhhhh no. My first time. Ever. Her excitement was palpable. "Well then you love to sing?" Again I answered in the negative. "Ummm...then I'm confused? What's going on here?"
I explained about my list and of trying to cross something off. My husband and some of our friends, love to karaoke. I cannot sing. I'm not delusional, but I thought once I got over the hump and sang one song, I would love it too. I was terrified. I am an introvert. I hide it well under bluster and humor when really I'd rather be at home with a cuppa and a book. But isn't the point of a list is to mark things off of it?
My fantastic friend agreed to sing with me. I stoutly ignored the complaints that doing a duet didn't count. Was I on stage? Did I have a microphone? Then shut it. The song was Ms. Sinatra's one and only hit. Neither of us were wearing boots. There's a lot more talking then singing in it. In retrospect maybe I should have chosen a song I knew better.
Our name was called. The lights were bright, the song started immediately. But not me. The concept of the letters changing colors escaped me. Glorious friend and equally glorious actual singer of the band chimed in to get me going. A deer in headlights, I'd gone thairn. The words were stumbled over, and butchered. Actual Singer continued to coach the correct timing out of me as my poor friend tried to carry our sad little duet all by herself.
It was over. Thank you god. My husband went up and rocked the house. People actually got up and danced and sang along with him. In my already drunken haze I was content to watch him perform. Because he is damn good at it. A Performer. With a capital
And the notion of singing one song would rip the band aid off? One check mark on my list, one accomplishment done. And something that I never ever need to do again. Ever.
What's something your scared to do?