A Little Story of Mine
My heart panting, my lungs throbbing, my armpits crying, all begging me not to humiliate myself. What was I thinking? I paint. I play guitar. I pretend I can cook, but I do not sing. I don’t even have concerts in the shower, but somehow I had a number taped to my chest while I awaiting my turn. This is such a bad idea, I don't sing.
The door slammed open revealing an old woman in a Hawaiian dress, like an overgrown Lilo. Wind whipped through the room. Everyone held their breath.
“Tadyana!” the old-Lilo director howled.
I stood hoping it was my name she butchered.
“What song are you sing for us today?”
I picked my song discretely. It was a jazz song my grandmother loves but no one knows.
I raise my chin with a smile, “Steam Heat by Ella Fitzgerald .”
“Oh, I love that song!”
Oh s---, of course she does. I took a deep breath and started singing, “Sssssteam heat.”
I summoned all the sass of my black and Latino ancestors as I snapped my fingers and swayed my hips, hopefully distracting from my rubber knees. I even winked at a redhead sitting in the crowd, but what I did next… oh dear. I was so desperate to leave an impression.
As I amateurishly soloed, “I've got a hot water bottle, but nothing I've got'll take the place of you holding me tight,” I grabbed the nearest bottle and threw it across the room, nearly hitting one of my competitors, but knocking down the costume racks one by one. As each one crashed I saw the chances of being an actress crashing with it. I continued to sing ignoring the unyielding disaster. The director raised her hand. I immediately stopped. I curtsied and gracefully ran out the door leading a trail of shame and embarrassment.