Just got back from one of those divine instances of social, aural and mental torture that makes hanging out with people an exercise in maintaining sanity.

Obviously, I’m talking about karaoke.

A friend of mine and fellow corporate whore runs the booth down at Hooligan’s on Thursdays, and I’ve found myself there a handful of times; my old friend Sarah was a regular, and another friend just turned 21 today and decided to try her hand at it. I, being unable to learn, agreed to accompany the party, since why not? I rarely go out … though when I do, it’s back to this pit of agony, time and time again because I never fucking learn.

See, here’s the thing: singing is that one special talent of mine. It is my secret love affair, and the one thing about myself that I am particularly proud of. Sure, I’m fat; sure, I’m poor, but fuck you I can keep up with some of the most diverse voices and styles in music, and I have since I was a little kid. I was the kid who attended and pulled top scores in state choral events, and who led the tenor and alto sections in choir because the teacher only wanted to work with the soprano (it was a tiny school, mind you), who was wooed by the director of one of the best show choirs in the state (unsuccessfully, since the fam was poor as hell, we were about fifteen miles from the nearest bus stop for that district, and we couldn’t have afforded the cross-country trips anyway). Yeah, that sounds like I’m bragging because holy shit yeah I am, but seriously — that has always been my one thing. No, I’m not saying I’m the next Aretha, but I could have held my ground against those Idol kids before I decided performing sucked and smoking was awesome.

The flip-side of all of this is that performance is not my thing. I have super-low self-esteem, and I panic hard under anything more than cursory scrutiny. Have since I was a kid, and mom and clergy insisted I perform solo at the Christmas pageants every freaking year. Throat-closing, heart-pounding, makes-deer-in-the-headlights-look-completely-zen panic. I keep my shitty job because I blank out at interviews and start stuttering like a moron, despite being a pretty decent talker. Even sudden large-scale attention from people I know and am comfortable with is enough to wipe my mind completely clean of everything. It was bad when I was in school, but ten years after that and I’m absolutely hopeless. Seriously — when I was still a manager, a visiting higher-up came by, and I spent a full minute gaping like a fish before I was able to give him my name, because I had forgotten it. Group performances weren’t bad because I could pretend that everyone was paying attention to the others, but solos left me a nervous wreck for days before and after; I was heavy on the vibrato from the shaking, but that was fine for most choral pieces anyway so it was never that big an issue.

These days, I sneak singing like most people sneak porn. My days off, the SO leaves, and as soon as I hear that engine start it’s a beeline for the winamp and whatever I feel like singing along with at the top of my lungs while I do housework/play spider solitaire/whatever. I’ve only been caught once, and I was so mortified I couldn’t do it again for almost a month. I’d been dating the guy for five years at this point, so it certainly isn’t a matter of not being comfortable around him.

Love to sing, hate to perform. Do you see my dilemma?

And yet, I’m egotistical enough in this one stupid thing I take so seriously to want to be acknowledged for it by friends and strangers both. I tell myself I don’t care what they think either way, but it’s obviously bullshit. Of course I fucking do. This is my only time in my boring, mundane life to shine, dammit.

So every time I get invited to karaoke, there’s a painful process involved. Every. Single. Time. There’s a few songs that I love in the books (really, only a few I know that well at all). I spend a few hours practicing until I have the cues and cadence down perfectly. I know intimately every stretch of vibrato, where to take my breaths and which chorus changes structure to keep things fresh. I am going to blow away my friends and everyone there, because I should have been a goddamn pro!* I imagine everyone has this feeling when they step up to the plate.

So we hit the venue, and of course it’s too bright/too crowded/too everything that makes me uncomfortable far beyond the help of a few well-timed girl drinks. Everyone else is laid back, like they have no troubles in the world. I am shaking a little, because nerves are a bitch. People are wailing on the mic like they’re fucking Celine Dion, but what comes out is closer to Wing, and they don’t even care a little bit despite sucking harder than anything has ever sucked in the history of sucking. I am ready to pee a little because my guts have knotted themselves around my stomach. Friends grab the book, pick out goofy songs, don’t care at all. I start thinking holy shit, I am taking this and myself way too seriously. Try to loosen up a bit, decide that this isn’t my night and I’ll try it next time. Secretly, though, I want to get up there and sing my heart out and be amazing like I know I am! Consider maybe later, when it clears out a bit. Less audience, sure, but less pressure. Right?

Riiiiight.

Passively-aggressively attempt to find friend who knows one of my songs, so I can attempt the chicken-y way. Of course, the only stuff in there I really want to sing is 90′s girl rock and the Fugees, and who goes to a bar to hear that maudlin crap? Will I still be acknowledged and loved if no one likes the song? Why don’t these guys have the music I listen to? Give me some Florence and the Machine at least, come on.

So fine, let’s have some Fiona Apple; plenty of range, a moderate amount of technical stuff, but not difficult by any stretch of the imagination. No longer remembered so low chance of being obnoxious. Also, I can do this in my sleep. I could do it backwards. Friend says she knows this one! Perfect!

Listen to some other people; some good, some bad, holy crap I hear that stupid fucking American Pie song every goddamn time we come in here and I kinda wish I still smoked because a few drags before singing was awesome for opening up my chest (but no — trying for babies, so not even one teeny tiny drag, and no booze either, dammit). And then, finally, our turn. Friend is excited! MC friend hands me the mic …

Oh, cocks. What have I gotten myself into? Heft that fucker in the air, remember that I buckle under attention like a sofa under yo mamma, and that I’m still a fat girl who is horrifically insecure in every way, and that I’ve never believed anyone who has ever congratulated me on doing anything well anyway and what the hell do I think I’m trying to prove anyway? I can outdo a handful of old drunk guys imitating Neil Diamond? That when my friends look at me, they can think ‘yeah, she’s not the hottest thing on the block, but she sure can belt one out’? Really?

Throat closes. Lungs seize. Dizziness ensues. Put down the water glass, because the shaking is bad enough to slosh it all over the place like some sort of super-parkinson’s nightmare. What if I really actually suck, and everything I thought I knew about myself and my one cherished talent was a cruel joke? What if I am a complete failure at life?

Aaaaand go.

What’s that? Friend doesn’t know song as well as she thought she did and just kind of leaves off for most of it? Oh god, oh god, oh god, what the fuck do we do now? Vibrato that sounds like a goat’s mating call; cracking voice, moments of holy shit no matter what I try I cannot make a sound come out of my stupidly open mouth.

Love is over. Love is over and dead and burned and buried and this one thing I secretly adore has destroyed what little shreds of confidence I have because I am a gigantic wuss and I have no idea how to get rid of this crippling anxiety but I’d really love to, because dammit, this is unfair. I feel like I have to regain my honor, which is stupid but true. And thus, the next perfect opportunity will present itself when spotlight-loving friend decides it’s time to go to karaoke again. And I will agree.

And thus, the entire disgusting process will begin again.

So yeah. What started out as kind of a funny ‘oh, silly me’ sort of tale got kind of long and personal-ish, and I’m sorry about that, but I can’t help but wonder if other people feel that way?

Speaking (belatedly) of silliness and false encouragement, I am entirely amused by the plethora of vague, encouraging spam comments being dumped on this blog. Seriously, some of these are absolutely amazing.

*Yeah, I am being pretty much sarcastic. Mostly. Though I totally wanted to be Reba McIntyre (sp?) when I was a young’n. And when country music wasn’t complete ass.