Crisis of conscience

We just left home karaoke at our friend’s house in Blue Island. I was driving, we were tired, and I wanted a little reassurance.

“How’d I do tonight?” I asked.

Matthew was quiet for a bit.

“Honey, we both suck but we have fun.”

I felt my heart sink and my throat get a little woozy. “Suck” was news to me.

Anyone who’s heard me sing a cappella will indeed tell you I’m terrible. I need a band, I need back-up, I need tonal supervision, and I project best into a microphone. I was always in church choir and lauded for my voice, and, every time I’ve sung karaoke, I’ve been congratulated on my singing. Real congratulations, not sympathy congrats like you give to your losing opponents in little league, not just, “good job,” and a fake grip-n-grin. People have looked for me when I’ve sung karaoke in bars and said, “You did great with the Go-Go’s.” Who would lie about that?

But I’ve just been told, “Honey, we both suck but we have fun.”

I asked him, “No one’s ever told me I’m bad at karaoke. Are you really saying I’m bad at karaoke?”

“We had fun, and that’s what matters.”

No, that isn’t all that matters. A lifetime of compliments on my stage performance has just been questioned for the first time ever.

“Matthew, everyone’s told me I sing well at karaoke.”

“Well, who are you going to believe? Them or me?” he asked, half-asleep already.

“Your opinion is the one that matters most to me,” hoping for the affirmation, hoping he’d change his mind or at least fake it a little.

Silence.

My evening of fun, competent, group singing felt undone. I questioned every note I’d sung. Was it when I couldn’t get the low notes in “Rio” by Duran Duran? Was it because I didn’t know all the words to “Mirror in the bathroom”? Did I sing the girl parts too loud on “Love Shack”?

What about the last time I sang karaoke? Was it my rendition of Melanie’s “Roller skates”? She sang it funny herself, she warbled and squealed, so I warbled and squealed. Was that bad?

All I really wanted to be told was that I performed adequately. I know I’m not Melanie. I know I’m not Belinda Carlisle. I definitely know I’m not Simon Le Bon. I just wanted to know that I didn’t suck, that I had a good time and didn’t suck.

At least I had the best microphone.