I'd Say No One Cares, But That Would Be A Lie

Ariel from Apathetic Chipmunk and I are on one of our frequent Starbucks trips, ostensibly made for the purposes of working on the independent study papers for our study abroad program but usually spent discussing the merits of various online magazines and nutritional strategies. Early on in the visit, a deeply inconsiderate person settled into a chair near ours and began braying into her cell phone. (Ariel writes about this incident and reminds us of good coffeeshop manners here.)

My imagined response to such a person is usually along these lines: “No one cares.” The problem is that my imagined withering response is a lie. I do care what loud talkers are saying. I listen. Intently. And it makes me detest them. If I didn’t care, I would tune them out. That isn’t what I do. I listen and I dislike them irrationally. The same conversation that, overheard at a reasonable volume, would amuse me, elicit my sympathy or make me silently happy for someone makes me intensely malicious when it’s being screamed, especially in a confined space.

A sampling of what I heard and the silent responses it prompted follows.

“I’m just in Starbucks in town, all alone.”

Because no one likes you.

“Well, yeah, I just got a frap.”

I hope it keeps you awake all night, even though it isn’t even noon yet.

“Well, yeah, we went out…” and about ten minutes straight of conversation about some young man.

 It's because his eardrums haven’t healed from your last encounter. I hope you never hear from him again. Wait, no, I hope you end up together and he’s just as loud and annoying as you are, and you live in a very echoey house.

Just as being a horrible person was getting fun, she was joined by an equally loud friend a few moments later and excused herself from the call by saying that this friend’s arrival made the call rude. Her friend's arrival. Right. They proceeded to detail their grooming habits, and the new arrival was even louder.

“Yeah, the blonde  - the blonde who works downstairs – complimented me on it. The perm, I mean.”

The blonde lied.

Her friend settled her legs on the table in front of her and began to squawk: “Yeah, I haven’t shaved them in three days.” (My feminist body positivity and my deep vein of inner meanness came into conflict here – guess which won. A hint: I did not congratulate her for questioning patriarchal beauty standards.)

May every razor you use in the future be dull.  May every table you eat from be similarly contaminated.

Thankfully, the pair left before my ill wishing escalated. Ariel’s response to the situation was to remind her readers to be polite in coffeeshops. Mine is to explain why: some day, I will snap and these little unkindnesses will be unmuted. Pray it is not in response to you.

Learning from Laryngitis

I have been without the use of my voice for three full days now. In the middle of the fourth day, I can't help but think this is the universe's way of telling me I should rest my voice a bit more. 

Photo Credit: janeitesonthejames.blogspot.com

The universe is clearly about as subtle as Emma Woodhouse on Box Hill.

            

Many of my friends, however, have been far too kind to me while I have been unable to speak. This should not surprise me, as this probably makes me somewhat easier to deal with than when I do not have laryngitis. However, they are making a mistake. I deserve no sympathy. This predicament is all my own fault, and I deserve all the misery and frustration it entails. I can only hope I will learn a valuable lesson from it.

See, I have a problem with singing. Reading this, you may assume that this means I sometimes push my voice a bit too far in the shower or occasionally join in with my friends in a verse or two of something toward the end of a night out. You’re completely wrong. That doesn’t even begin to cover it. My problem is different – namely, that after about three quarters of a vodka tonic, I become absolutely convinced that I am Ethel Merman, Mary Martin, or Frederica von Stade, depending on my mood and what I have been listening to earlier in the day. It isn't even a drinking thing. It's just that now I have an excuse.

Photo Credit: musicals101.com

It is Not Attractive Behavior, partly because I am not Ethel, Mary, or Frederica, and partly because I am not on stage. Saturday, for instance, when I strained my voice, I was in a friend’s kitchen. See? Not a stage.

Normally, I am content to pretend I possess a modicum of dignity and self respect, and possibly a basic understanding of good behavior. Sure, I may want to sing, but I realize that it is a bad idea, so instead I sit and make relatively normal, if excruciatingly nerdy, conversation.

However, it is all over the moment some poor dumb soul says, “Sara, why don’t you sing something?” On a conscious level, I know they are probably either drunk, deluded, humoring me, or messing with me. Still, I can’t help but be flattered. I have not only been given permission to do what I know good manners and good sense dictate I should not. I have actually been asked! I may protest, but at this point, I am probably already doing discreet breathing exercises and analyzing repertoire choices.

Photo Credit: breadcrumbreads.blogspot.com

I am quietly preparing to embarrass the hell out of myself, with the excuse that it’s harmless fantasy. (“What would I sing if…") In short, I have no shame. This process of preparation is easy to justify as a silent, indulgent game, but it primes me to make a fool of myself and make everyone else uncomfortable the moment someone suggests I sing a second time, a karaoke book is passed around, or something reminds me of a song.

It would be cruel to say no no, I tell myself, just before I launch into an off key Baroque aria, a poorly planned Cole Porter medley, or a Rodgers and Hammerstein classic I once sang in high school. After all, I have been asked to sing! Multiple times! Or it's karaoke. Aren't we supposed to sing at karaoke? And of course it can't go as badly as last time. 

What I should be telling myself at this point is that I am not appeasing an adoring public. I am embarrassing myself.

Photo Credit: professionalmother.blogspot.com

I am really embarrassing myself, and everyone who is pretending not to know me. It is not becoming. It is not ladylike. It needs to stop.  The universe, it seems, agrees. I realized this on Sunday morning when I woke up, attempted to speak, and heard only a squeak.

           

In response, I am making a new rule for myself:

            

I will not sing outside of choir, or the privacy of my own shower. It is never a good idea, no matter what “encouragement” I may receive. I will no longer subject myself or anyone else to my unfortunate squawking and the awkwardness it creates.  Not in a friend’s flat, not while walking to or from a social event, not in an echoey stairwell, and certainly not at karaoke.

Should you be present at a social event at which I seem ready to break this rule, please, please stop me. Squirt me with a water gun like a cat that’s gotten onto a kitchen counter. Swat me on the nose with a rolled up newspaper. Do whatever you have to do to get my attention. Duly chastened, I will resume my pretension of normalcy.

You will be spared the discomfort of listening to me sing in an inappropriate situation with no warm up and no rehearsal, and I will certainly thank you later. Possibly with food.

Photo Credit: asliceofcherrypie.com