7/5/2011 - sing. . .

I like to sing.  This bit of confession should come as no surprise to anyone who has ever spent more than 10 minutes with me in a car.  I find it impossible within my mortal capacity to resist the urge to belt along with whatever I hear on the radio, even if I can't stand the song itself.  On the drive back from Vegas to San Francisco, my mom would later tell Sam that I sang the whole nine-plus hours home, and she did not exaggerate.

I sing along when I put music on at home, in the shower to whatever I have looping in my head, on my bike as I make my way to work on most mornings.  Last year, I even sang at work, when I somehow got lassoed into singing a duet with Paula, my department's administrative assistant, during an 'all-team' meeting.  "Endless Love," and I even let her be Diana Ross.

And of course, by "somehow lassoed," I really mean I volunteered when the VP of Marketing said she would like to put a little bit more entertainment into the meeting. 

The song went OK.  I know I've sung better, and I'm fairly certain I went a little 'pitchy' at parts, but I stayed in tune enough to get rousing applause afterwards and an excited Paula who couldn't stop talking about it for the next week.

This morning when I opened my Outlook, the first e-mail I saw had the following headline:

Paula, upon seeing me, immediately rushed over to my cubicle and said that she could not wait to sing with "her Lionel Richie" again.  She already looked over the HR-approved list of karaoke songs (which inexplicably includes "Baby Got Back" and "Like a Virgin") and compiled a list of 20 songs she thought we could do together with a few numbers she could think of doing with no other person but me.

It's good to be wanted.