I spend my time in the car daydreaming that I am going or coming from a more exciting place than work. Take yesterday evening as an example; I was on my way home engaging in a particular daydream where I achieve literary greatness. I hobnob with famous author types at swanky literary parties. My agent calls me to tell me that my book has sold a zillion copies and we’re going to Maui to celebrate and we’ll be served fruity drinks by a cabana boy that looks like Johnny Depp. In the midst of this daydream, right around where I accept a major literary award, the song “Fame” by Irene Cara comes on the radio which perfectly fits with my daydream so I sang along.
Sing along may be an understatement. What I lacked in singing talent I more than made up for with stage presence. Butt cheeks were full levitated from the leather seats in what might pass for seated dancing or a minor seizure. The only thing holding me in the car was the seatbelt otherwise I could have bopped right out of windows. I was working up to the BIG FINISH by wailing into my thumb Celine Dion style, when I looked over and realized that several cars in the other lane were matching their pace to mine so they could watch.
The problem with being caught doing something in your car is that there is no where to go. It is also usually at this point that you notice the number of windows that a car has, you are virtually surrounded by glass. You would never stand by the side of the road and sing- but put yourself in a car and somehow we feel it is socially acceptable to make a fool of ourselves. On the plus side, I was only caught singing. I have spotted people engaging in full hygiene routines best performed at home alone. Others seem to be involved in frontal lobe brain surgery where they are armed only with an index finger and thus are forced to go up through a nostril.
Once I realized that I was starting in a single singer version of Automobile Idol I slunk down in my seat and tried to act like I didn’t know I was busted. I attempted to look like a serious commuter, with a stern face and using proper lane changing signals. Then Pat Benatar’s song Heartbreaker came on. How could I not sing along? “Heart breaker, dream maker, don’t you mess around with me.” I tried to hold it in, but I didn’t stand a chance. I rolled down the window so they could get the benefit of sound and not just visual and let it rip. Life is too short to miss a good song on the radio.
I’ve decided once literary stardom hits with the first really fat royalty check I’ll invest in tinted windows. Unless I’m discovered for my singing talents first.
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