Well, She's No Bryan Adams

When did I first tell myself I couldn't paint?  That I am not a good dancer, lacking any and all rhythm?  That I am not artistic, aesthetics losing the battle?  Exactly when did I relegate myself to a boring life full of greys and browns?  All I remember is when I decided I couldn't sing.

I was 10.  In music class, our teacher would have us line up on these mini-bleachers in the classroom.  While we all sang whichever ditty (most likely, "Everything I Do, I Do it for You" by Bryan Adams.  Teacher had a real hang-up on that song), she would walk down the line and listen to each of us.
As class went on, she would point out the good singers among us, and ask the bad singers to stop and listen.  Most of the people she stopped would be allowed to start up again after hearing the talented choir she'd cultivated.
When she halted my spastic harmonies, she kept it that way.  Sat in silence the rest of the period.
About the 3rd week in, she testily asked me if I wanted to go to the principal's office.  I was so bad at conveying Bryan Adam's melodious sensibilities, she thought I was misbehaving.  She asked me to stop and listen to what singing is meant to sound like, and then proceeded to down some aspirin she had conveniently stored inside her piano bench.

Your father has a nice singing voice, too.  That's what my mum told me, as we drove about town one day.  It's the "too" that's misleading.  The implication being that among my many inherited traits, a vocal acumen was bequeathed.
Looking back, that was awfully kind of her.
Maybe she had a value size of Tylenol stashed away in the glovebox.

Going for the Grammy

This morning I forewent coffee in favor of health.  I read that caffeine increases stress hormones, which can facilitate in the production of fat.  So, small steps, I thought.
And now, at 5:30 pm, I can tell you it was all a huge mistake.
Not a single interesting thought has entered my head, my preoccupation instead being with how comfortable my bed is and how happy it would make me.
Indeed, the most taxing thing I've done today is practice singing.  Arguably, it was much more taxing for anyone home upstairs, forced to listen to the death rattle below.

Singing is one of my bucket list achievements.  It is shaping up to be a slow, agonizing year towards 30. The dog began to cry in the midst of my octaves.  Believing he needed some bladder relief, I let him out, only to witness his mad dash to freedom.  Instead of trotting to the side yard, as always, he ran so fast down the drive that his front legs caved while the back two continued to push.  All the way to the car, parked on the street.

Once back inside, not even through my first octave, he pulled all the stuffing out of his bed, spun in circles, and then growled.  Puppy is a harsh critic.

How does this all tie in to my lack of coffee?  I have no idea.  Don't say I didn't warn you.