I am happy and miserable. Not the usual ADDesque hop-scotching of emotional squares but it’s as if my feelings are singing two notes at the same time and the harmony is both comforting and exhausting.
In one of the choirs at one of the colleges I attended while taking the scenic route through higher education the choir director asked me if I could sing two notes at once. He was only partially kidding. Our tenor section was full of pansies, I have a pretty good range, and my singing two notes at once would have been much easier for him than trying to figure out which parts of which songs I would sing with the altos and which with the tenors. I sing much better in choirs than I do by myself. Maybe it’s the being part of something that brings that confidence out in me, maybe it’s something about wanting to be seen while hiding. Maybe it’s because my tongue longs to sing words it doesn’t understand.
That same choir director also gave me the alto part in the Regina Coeli quartet. I was shocked that I was able to gather the balls to audition; I was incredulous when I actually got it. I wasn’t the only one. A girl whom I was friendly with, who was also an alto, congratulated me with: “so, you’re singing the whole thing?” Her voice tinged with hope and confusion. I should have replied with: “That’s right, bitch. The. Whole. Thing. He picked me, NOT YOU. Deal with it,” then strutted away as murmured choruses of “Oh, no, she didn’t” erupted around me. But what I actually did was blush, shrug awkwardly, and say “uh…um…I guess?” before walking away thinking I’m singing the whole thing, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, and trying to stave off an anxiety attack.
I haven’t been in a choir since I graduated. And although I sing loud and proud in the shower and my car, I haven’t even so much as stepped up to a karaoke machine in probably over a year. This is a symptom of a larger problem, quite possibly a brain cloud. The good news is I am acutely aware of the problem (i.e. how completely uninhabitable my life is), the bad news is I may be sacrificed to an Orange Crush God before I figure things out.
Every day, good days, bad days, I feel more and more just how desperately I need to get out of retail. I think part of the reason I hate H.B. so much is because I know that if I don’t get off this train I’m going to become her. *shudder* Problem is I got an English degree then threw myself into 4 years of retail slavery. I have absolutely no idea what else I can do. Oh, marketable skills, how I pine for you. As much as I hate retail management I’m good at it (god, that makes me sad) and it comes with health insurance. The prospect of finding something new is daunting, but the idea of staying is devastating.
What I need is for the universe to tell me just what it is that it wants from me, cause if I knew I would totally get on that.
Or a Sugar Daddy.
Either works for me.