When I was about 11 I signed up for a musical theatre class. I liked to act (usually like an idiot) and had some experience in professional at-home puppet shows and grand performances of Down By The Bay, so I figured my skills would transfer.
From what I can remember, the first couple classes went well. We played some games to get to know each other and laid on the floor and did some breathing exercises. I was a little awkward during the games but can breathe the pants off anyone I know so I totally slayed at those.
Then came the singing.
Oh the singing, how I despise thee. A man named Alex came in with a keyboard and made us all sing that gibberish song from Grease, which, by the way, is the HARDEST song to pretend you know the words to when you don’t have a damn clue. All of my Down By The Bay practice went out the window. I stood in the back mouthing WATERMELON over and over again which, as convincing as that sounds in a group of six people, didn’t work as well as I’d hoped.
This mothersucker called me out! He was about to ruin all the street cred I had built up from those breathing exercises. What a dick.
So whatever, he tells everyone else to shut up and they all turn and look at me and I tear up and don’t know the words and am freaking terrible at singing and he’s telling me to sing louder and project my voice and I’m about to project my fists through the piano and make him eat four octaves of keys and it’s just a whole thing.
Like many other things in my life, instead of improving I faked it then quit. I did musical theatre for three years and don’t think I sang another word. Now my musical talents can only be found in the car or at the bottom of a bottle of gin.
And, I beg of you, if I start humming, save yourself and get the hell out of there. You will thank me.
I have no pictures of me singing so here’s one of Kate getting iced for you to enjoy.