I gave Son #2 the evil eye before slinking back to my seat. Joan climbed on stage, and I held my breath. Thankfully, it appeared she was only announcing a couple birthdays of people in the crowd. I blew out a sigh.
And then the keyboardist called me up.
Shit.
I contemplated my response. Which scenario would be more awkward and humiliating? I could either go through with this unforeseen challenge or else chicken out in front of a hundred strangers who were all staring at me in anticipation.
The choice was a given.
I plodded, zombie-like, toward the stage. I passed my grinning son. “I didn’t even get to rehearse,” I hissed at him. “And I’m totally sober.”
My 52/52 life flashed before my eyes. My Survivor audition, mime performance, and nude beach experience. Sure, I had endured them all without a drop of alcohol. But this? I hung my head. Why did I stay sober at the most inopportune moments?
The keyboardist smiled at me. “So,” he asked, “What would you like to sing? Any special song? Any particular band?”
I stared blankly at him. Sure, I had several favorite bands and songs. Put on the spot, however, my brain neurons failed to connect. I came up with—nothing. I managed to muster up a thoughtful, “Umm.”
He forced another encouraging smile and then apparently sized up my age. “How about something by the Beatles?”
The Beatles! Yes, my rock and roll saviors! I couldn’t tell you what I had for dinner last night (probably microwave popcorn and a Diet Coke), but I still knew every song lyric in the Beatles’ complete discography.
“But I can’t sing lead. Not alone. Not today,” I whispered to him. “You need to sing with me.” He nodded and winked at me, and my hyperventilating slowed to a few lingering gasps.
In honor of the evening’s birthday boys, who were also standing on stage, the band launched into “Birthday.” The keyboardist shoved a microphone into my hand. The music jumped into the song’s familiar opening, “Da-Da-Da-Da-Da-Da-Da-Dah.”
There was no turning back. I turned to face the crowd.
“You say it’s your birthday,” I yelled into the microphone. “It’s my birthday, too, yeah.”
I glanced down at the mic. Wait, was this thing on? Or had the band, wisely, turned my microphone off? Although I was shouting the song, all I heard were the instruments. I wasn’t sure anyone else could hear me either. Which would possibly be to their benefit.
All I could do was continue singing.
I smiled out at the crowd. Many of them were dancing and grinning back. I grasped my microphone, belting out the next words: “We’re gonna have a good time!” I strutted around the stage and sang some more.
As I sang and danced, I pondered what the hell was happening. I had never sung on stage in front of an audience before, and my two singing lessons had proven less than encouraging. To top it off, I was dancing. Dancing wasn’t my thing, by any means, mostly because my moves tended to mimic an electrocuted crab. Dancing on the floor that afternoon with my sister was one thing. But dancing—and singing—on stage?
Why wasn’t I a nervous wreck? Why did I feel so at ease with all this? Why did it suddenly feel so right?
In the strangest and scariest of times, perhaps you simply feel the moment and find the courage. And at that moment, I felt like a rock star.
As the first stanza ended and the music continued, however, I grew confused. I’d forgotten that this song had a strange musical arrangement. I bopped about and smiled at the audience, but I couldn’t recall when the song’s vocals should jump back in again. Did I miss my cue? Should I be singing right now?
I didn’t hear the keyboardist singing either, so I pranced, limply, for a while longer before glancing back at him. He was pointedly eyeing me while his mouth moved with the music.
Damn.
Apparently, it wasn’t just my voice I couldn’t hear. I couldn’t pick up the vocals from any of the microphones.
I collected myself, recognized the part of the song we had reached, and quickly chimed in. The keyboardist looked almost as relieved as I felt.
The remainder of my performance may have lacked a bit of my original gusto and confidence, but I got back in the game and finished the song. I even ended with a smile and a bow—and a smattering of applause.
I walked off the stage with a feeling of near triumph.
I learned later that the earpieces worn by singers are actually a kind of monitor allowing them to hear the full scope of what the audience is hearing. Without such an ear-piece, I could only hear the instruments around me and not the vocals, which is why I found myself momentarily lost, even in a song I thought I knew so well. If I’d rehearsed with the band, or had any musical background at all, I might have known this and made it through the song snafu-free.
A few people in the crowd stopped me to say I did great. It probably helped that most had been drinking all day. Yet, even Son #2—and lord knows our children can be our biggest critics—told me he was proud.
Sure, I would have preferred a foolproof performance over my flawed one. What struck me, regardless, was other than that one mid-song mistake, I had felt perfectly at ease singing with the band. Even unprepared, in front of a huge crowd of almost all strangers, I’d endured little stage fright. I’d pushed past all malfunctions and misgivings, and although I almost certainly didn’t sing from my diaphragm, I did sing with my soul.
After living through months of frightening and sometimes humiliating new exploits, had I grown braver? Become more desensitized to fear? Or, perhaps, was I simply destined to perform on stage?
I’d go with all of the above.
I still had many new experiences to undertake. After that night, I knew I’d face each one of them with more courage than I had imagined.
My journey wasn’t finished yet.
Who says it’s over when the fat lady sings?
After my Big Fat Greek Party, I wanted to enroll at Marquette University and pledge Sigma Chi—fresh off its double-secret probation.
As I embraced my weirdness during my mime performance, the passersby and I seemed to agree—in an unspoken understanding—that we’re all weird, really.
After our day of visiting a nude beach and then dining in the dark, my mother told me she enjoyed the nude beach more. Perhaps lighting is everything.
It was a blustery day at the nude beach. All around me, dozens of winky-dinks waved in the wind. I didn’t wave back.
When I accidentally caught the bouquet while crashing a wedding, I was happy to hand it off to a more enthusiastic recipient. I applauded from the background before making my escape.
I headed out for the day in pajamas, slippers, and a headful of curlers. Breakfast was at a restaurant called Chowders ’N Moor, a fitting name for a fish out of water.
Channeling my inner Ferris Bueller, I jumped in line and marched in the St. Patrick’s Day parade. Waving to my would-be fans, I pondered how to sing “Danke Schoen” in Gaelic.
As we prepared for the New Year’s Day Polar Plunge, I told my nephew, Cole, he was brave. Silently, I toyed with the idea that he was just genetically inclined toward poor decision-making.
Awaiting my racing experience, I watched the cars tear around the track. I convinced myself it appeared almost less hazardous than a Detroit freeway.
When I debuted as The University of Toledo’s mascot, Rocksy, UT’s mysterious and masked spirit organization—the Blue Crew—welcomed me into their fold and convinced me I needed more cowbell.
The Blade, Amy Voigt, 2014
After bathing Sam the white rhino, I added “I gave a rhinoceros an erection” to the list of things I never thought I’d hear myself say.
Chapter 29:
YOU CAN RING MY BELL
Every December, on my first couple passes by storefront Salvation Army bell-ringers, I smile and toss them a buck or two. Then, I spend the rest of the holiday season trying to slip past without making eye contact.
My seasonal avoi
dance disorder wasn’t without a bit of guilt. After years of this routine, I decided to make amends by making it my mission to collect a bucketful of cash for the Salvation Army.
I hoped all I had to do was ring my bell, flash a sweet smile, and offer a warm holiday greeting. What I didn’t want to do was plead or beg.
To my relief, I learned I couldn’t directly ask anyone to contribute. This policy was so fine with me. Although I worked full-time for a fund-raising organization, my occupation entailed overseeing more general communications; I wasn’t required to actually ask people for money. As a bell-ringer, I would somehow need to find a subtle way to inspire people to give.
My Salvation Army contact did offer a few suggestions to encourage giving. With this advice in mind, I bought ten dollars worth of candy canes and Hershey Kisses. Wearing a Santa hat and a big smile, I headed out to my station at a nearby Kroger store.
I rang a bell for three hours, and I came away learning a few things about human nature.
First, bribery works. The adults with children in tow nearly always contributed something. Were these parents trying to set a good example through their giving, or were they only desperate to stifle their nagging children? When I asked if I could offer their youngsters some candy, most admitted this was precisely why they had stopped by my station—because their children had spied the candy and begged for a piece.
Still, I discovered that not all the youngsters were simply greedy. A few handed me money from their own pockets or Hello Kitty wallets. In return, I allowed them to ring my bell and gave them an extra dose of sugar. Hell yes, I did. A sweet gesture deserved a sweet reward.
I also learned that some people can’t or won’t give, no matter what. Even when I offered my brightest smile and warmest greetings, several folks went out of their way, literally, to avoid me. I couldn’t judge those who hugged the opposite perimeter of the lobby as they entered, just to evade me. I did the same thing every year.
Maybe a few of them were simply having a bad day. Perhaps some didn’t give because they chose to help the poor in other ways or through different organizations. (The Salvation Army had received some bad press recently, but I like to think my fundraising initiative helped several needy people.) In addition, for all I knew, some of these Kroger customers might have fallen upon tough times, forced to become recipients themselves of charitable contributions.
Most adults, even those who donated, shook their heads at my offer of candy. But a few approached and asked for a piece without dropping a single cent into the kettle. While I wanted to call them out on this, I pushed aside my inner Scrooge, held out the candy bowl, and wished them “Happy Holidays.”
Even some of the non-contributors still provided a laugh. As an elderly man in an electric scooter passed, I rang my bell and shouted, “Ho-ho-ho!”
He glided by, without pausing, and retorted, “Don’t say that on a downtown street corner. People might get the wrong idea.” Good point.
Finally, I learned the more I gave of myself, the more others gave too.
I began the evening by simply smiling and offering holiday greetings to customers. By the end of the night, I found myself dancing and beating the bell against my hips, in rhythm to a silent version of “Jingle Bell Rock.”
A few people grinned and said, “Are you dancing to the music in your head?” Spurred on, I eventually gathered the nerve to whisper the tune, and finally I belted it out. Embarrassing? Yes. Effective? That, too.
The smiles multiplied. Several customers glanced at me and said, “Well, you sure seem happy!” It seems people’s hearts are warmed by the sight of a jolly old elf. Once I became more enthusiastic and more engaged, so did the customers. And when a Facebook friend, Linda, showed up with a cowbell for me to use, the contributions began to pour in.
Apparently, I needed more cowbell.
Toward the end of the night, one customer gave me a side-glance and raised his eyebrows as he passed. I sighed and paused in the middle of my song and dance. He was so not enthralled. Clearly, I looked ridiculous.
But just before he reached the exit, he stopped and looked back. He returned to stick a wad of greenbacks in the bucket. They didn’t make it all the way through the slot, so after he walked away, I reached down to push them in. I didn’t count the bills, but I did get a good look at the one on top: It was a ten.
When my shift ended, I estimated half the people who came in and out of the store dropped at least something in the kettle. My gig proved far more successful than I expected. A couple weeks later, I received a letter from the Salvation Army. They reported I helped raise $141.52. If my third-grade math skills hadn’t failed me, that amounted to about $47 an hour—putting my fund-raising gig well above the national $30 average.
Yet the success of the evening wasn’t measured only by dollar amounts. The most rewarding moment of the evening was when an elderly woman stuck a couple ones in the bucket.
“Thanks so much!” I said. I held out my tin of candy. “Would you like a treat?”
She shook her head and smiled. “No, thank you. Being able to help is my treat.”
That sentiment was worth every minute I spent ringing my bell—and worth more than every bill in my bucket.
Chapter 30:
CRYING OVER SPILLED PAINT
My former husband and I built our dream house when our marriage seemed everlasting and our children were babies. It was the house my two now-grown sons considered our family home and the one where I thought I’d babysit my grandchildren and live out my golden years.
Twenty-one years later, reality and practicality finally led me to sell it. The day I moved, I walked through every room. I stroked the stairway’s mahogany handrail, envisioned the crib in my youngest son’s bedroom, and fought tears as I walked out the front door for the last time.
I moved out and moved on. Six months later, I watched through my new condo’s kitchen window as a plow attacked the mountains of snow on my sidewalk and driveway. I sat back and grinned. Although I had trouble letting go of my family home with all its memories and its aborted future, I decided condo living had its perks.
While living in a condo allowed me freedom from several maintenance responsibilities, I was still waiting for my BFF handyman, Jerry, to tackle some home projects not handled through my condo association. After months of waiting, I began to fear he may never show. With my office closed for the day by a Level Three Snow Emergency, I propped myself on the couch and stared around at all the shit that apparently wasn’t going to fix itself.
My idea of a do-it-yourself job had never encompassed more than changing a light bulb or hanging and rehanging a picture until it looked nearly straight. I possessed little interest, and virtually no aptitude, in DIY projects.
One of the items on my handyman’s forgotten list was sanding and re-staining the trim on a fifty-year-old bar built by my great-grandfather. It sat, dusty and dilapidated, in my new basement. I’d already bought sandpaper, brushes, and a couple cans of mahogany stain, to save Jerry a trip to the hardware store. The Old Sherry would have waited a decade to pay someone else to pretty it up. The New Sherry, far braver and a tad less bright, shrugged and said, “How hard could it be?”
I talked myself out of an afternoon of Netflix and Bloody Marys, and I headed downstairs.
Within forty-five minutes, I sanded away the entire top layer of graying wood. The natural wood soon shined, begging me to finish its facelift.
Buoyed by this success, I reached for a can of stain. I glanced back at the bar. My face dropped as reality hit me.
Staining inch-wide strips of wood on a piece of antique furniture seemed a somewhat intricate project for someone with my limited—and by limited, I mean nonexistent—painting skills. I’d never even painted a damn wall.
In my defense, I moved into my first house when I was eight months pregnant and was advised that painting was hazardous. I bought my second house newly constructed and freshly painted. By the time I bought this condo, wi
th several nicked and blotchy walls, I simply put “wall touch-up” on the absent handyman’s list.
So, before I began the complex work that day of re-staining the bar, I decided to take baby steps into my DIY career by first touching up a few walls. I rummaged through a collection of rusty cans of paint left by the previous owner and found a can of blue for the living room. I didn’t bother with a drop cloth, which I had heard was helpful. After all, I was applying tiny brush strokes to just a handful of blemishes.
After covering a half-dozen spots on my living room wall, I stepped back to examine my work. Hmm. The newly painted areas looked awfully dark. But I’d heard paint lightened as it dried. Wait. Or, did it darken?
Minor details. One room was finished!
Perusing the old paint cans for beige, I paused as I spied a second container of blue: a lighter, strangely familiar shade. Quite like the color of the wall I just touched up with dark blue.
Sigh. My late father, a former color approver in a vinyl production factory, was surely shaking his head in disgust.
I went over the spots in the living room with the correct color of blue, and touched up the beige on two other walls. I then lugged the original blue can into the guest bedroom, which appeared to be a true match. I slapped the paint onto several bad spots, blending in the color.
“Our House” by Crosby, Stills & Nash played in the background. I hummed along. Now that I was getting the hang of it, painting wasn’t so stressful. It was actually sort of soothing! Why had I assumed it would be so difficult?
As I reached down to dip the brush into the can, my eyes spied a sprinkling of blue paint on the tan carpet. Upon closer examination, it appeared less of a sprinkle and more of a widespread spray. In fact, most of the carpet’s perimeter was now tie-dyed tan and blue.
Racing to my computer, I Googled “removing paint from carpet.” I spent two hours attempting every household paint-removing remedy listed—vinegar, nail polish remover, WD-40—to no avail.
Finding My Badass Self Page 13
