Confessions of a Closet Singer

I can, sort of, sing. By “sort of”, I mean that I can hit notes with some accuracy within a fairly limited range. I can, sort of, do falsetto. I can add vibrato, if it’s in my very limited range. Basically, I can sing anything baritone as long as it doesn’t require, yah know, strength.

I have surprising power in the mid ranges. Ok, surprising to someone who doesn’t or can’t sing; not so surprising if you nailed lead on your high school Into The Woods audition. In a different vein, I have Open Mic Power; I can belt out that pop hit from the 90’s like no one’s business.

The unfortunate consequence of this is: I think I can sing. And I can’t. I mean, I enjoy singing and nothing will really stop me from doing so. Well, accept an audience. I sing in the car, the den, when I think no one’s listening. But I don’t seek out venues to sing anymore.

To top it off, I’m a friggen prude about it too. I won’t sing karaoke, I won’t belt out in a public event with religious music (funerals or weddings), I don’t even attempt anything atonal. I’m not A Singer, but I like to sing. I’m the singer in the closet, the shower crooner, a Pocket Elvis. (OK, maybe not Elvis… I can’t dance.)

But I want to sing. It’s seriously a bad thing. I think I can, I’ve heard that I can. I actually know that I can, in limited capacities (Kalamazoo ’98 Open Mic!) But that was a decade and a lifetime ago.

Does that make me old, sad… both?