To be honest, I’m not alone much. Or if I am, I’m orbiting the beltway with 9 million of my closest disgruntled DC commuter friends. Which doesn’t feel like being alone.
But I suppose there are those times … [pause] ... you know, ...those times.
Those times when maybe a Taylor Swift song comes on and you catch yourself singing to it in the mirror. Do you stop? Do you grimace in horror at how gauche you are, a middle aged woman dramatically singing along to a song sung by a girl the size of your thigh?
No. No you take that quiet lip-sync moment reflection and EXPLODE it in to a spectacle of microphone clutching, hair whipping, contorted bedazzlement. You almost hurt yourself on the furniture. The dog nervously exits the room as you do a partial back bend, silently hitting the very highest notes while waving one hand around as if you have 3 inch fingernails that need to be stretched and spaced apart into the breeze blowing on stage.
Then the song ends and you don’t like the next one so you quietly go back to scrutinizing the inventory of freckles on your nose in the bathroom mirror, wondering if one might be a melanoma or an errant glob of peanut butter off your morning toast.