This past week I wore a hole in the carpet of my brain through worry pacing. That’s a talent… the carpet installers have yet to figure out how I got carpet up in my brain. Why the worn out brain carpet? I was asked weeks or months ago to sing at a multi-stake function being held this past Saturday. Of course I said yes those many weeks and/or months ago because I was healthier than Mr. Ed on an All Bran diet. (Y’all young’uns will have no clue who Mr. Ed is… I barely know myself… but he’s a horse of course… and no one can talk to a horse of course… that is, of course, unless the horse is the famous Mr. Ed!) I may or may not have forgotten what I was talking about… oh yes… I said yes to the singing because I love to sing and because I was like the rock of Gibraltar of wellness!
Of course, there’s an unwritten fine print disclaimer in the book of the Universe… if someone asks you to do something requiring a vocal cord, you will more than likely get an upper respiratory infection in which you can barely talk let alone sing the week of said performance. Karma… I don’t know whose karma I done caught but it was someone’s and I was not appreciative. Keep your Karmas to yourselves, people… or next time I’d rather have the karma payback in which I get run over by a bus… preferrably a yellow school bus since they are obvs made for fat kids… especially when they require 3 people to squish into one tiny seat.
So, anyway… I was worried. Three days before D-day I had a raspy-sounding voice and it more sounded like a cat in heat when I tried to belt out the musical number… and forget the high notes… ain’t no high notes passing these vocal blobules. I swear to you I had crud balls/goober clumps 5 feet deep down the ole throat space (oh, quit saying gross… goober clumps are a national tragedy!) There were many times where I almost picked up the phone to call and tell them I couldn’t do it. They’d have to understand that… when you sing, your voice is your instrument and when your voice don’t work… you might as well have left your instrument on the bus. Also, judging from past experience when Whitney gets an upper respiratory infection, we’re talking at least 3 or 4 weeks before the goober clumps fully leave the brain carpet… and I only had 4 days of illness under my belt at that point.
So… we prayed… I prayed… my mom prayed… and Saturday morning came and went… and I made it through my song… goober clumps be durned. I know I had help from a higher power. Standing on that stage, picturing the audience wearing a clown shoe on their heads (I had to banish picturing the audience nekked YEARS ago… A.) it’s not proper in any setting that doesn’t contain a pole and/or disc jockey… and b.) Just EWW!), having worried the whole week, I felt a strength in voice I hadn’t felt the last 4 days. Not my best voice… and definitely not under the circumstances I would have liked to have had… but a semi-clear voice nonetheless. Prayer is powerful… I’m not preaching… I’m just saying. I can find no other reason for my tiny miracle.
Question of the Day: Do you have a “trick” for calming the nerves in front of an audience? I might need to steal it!