For the first time in a long time, during my shower this morning, I was inspired to sing. I am a lifelong shower belter, but lately I haven't been feeling particularly energetic (especially before noon), let alone performance-ready.
From somewhere in the vast recesses of my underwater repertoire came the first lines of I Dreamed a Dream, my favorite Les Miserables solo. It felt like putting on an old, comfortable shoe. Familiar, imbued with nostalgia, an object of affection. Can shoes be imbued with nostalgia? Mine are.
As I sang through each verse, with greater and greater emotion and dramatic intention, I imagined Honey (who was sitting in the next room), thinking to himself: What a gem I found! I am the luckiest man in the world. Not only is my Sweetheart wonderful, but such a talented singer, such a passionate performer. I am moved by her voice, her artistic expression...
When I was in college I sang with a lass who was approached by a cute boy after one of our concerts. He had been smitten by her voice, and they ended up dating for a couple of years. I thought that was incredibly romantic and hoped that one day Prince Charming would be summoned by my dulcet tones. In fact, I did serenade Honey on the night we met but I doubt the "acoustics" of the famed Fifth Bar did my voice any favors.
By this time I was splashing about in the shower "air conducting" as I approached the exciting finale. Cue strings. Poor Fantine on her deathbed. The audience would have been in tears. The money note (hold it, hold it, maximum drama) and then, hushed, molto espressivo, the last, heartwrenching, tragic line.
I pictured Honey, eyes wet with emotion, waiting to embrace me as I came out of the bathroom in my robe. I turned off the water expecting to hear the rustle of tissues as he tried to pull himself together, but instead of sniffling, I heard loud squawking from the computer and bursts of profanity.
"Honey?" I edged my head around the bathroom door.
"Ah Putain! Tu le crois?!" (translation: For Frack's Sake! Can you believe this?!)
"What's going on, Sweetie? did you hear me singing?" I coo.
"What? Oh, yeah, for a minute...mais ca c'est degueulasse. Il nous a VO-LE. Cet arbitre est a-VEUGLE. La honte!" Clasping of hands, pacing, vigorous shaking of head.
(translation #1: What a crock! We were ROBBED. Freaking ref needs a new pair of glasses.)
(translation #2: I heard you singing, but then I turned up the rugby highlights to drown you out.)
Damn. Miss O's Broadway Revival: 0, Sports Channel: 1