I sing and dance when I feel good. Not well, mind you. My younger son was but a toddler, trapped in a moving vehicle with his off-key mother, when he said, "Mom, can you please sing inside your head?" That about sums up my talent.
My singing is important, though. It's a sign that I feel good. It's not just a good mood thing -- it means I feel healthy and have extra energy to burn -- and that's not always the case.
While preparing dinner last night I was in fine form, groovin' to classic rock and belting out some fairly horrific sounding notes. Then I considered my husband, working in our home office, and wondered if I was annoying him. How could he concentrate with my off-key chorus? But it felt too good to stop.
My precarious health situation this past year means that he appreciates just about anything I do, simply because I'm here to do it. That's got to wear off eventually, right?
At dinner I asked the question. "How long will it last? How long will I be able to get away with making a racket before you quit appreciating my mere presence and ask me to cut it out?"
"I'd say pretty much for the rest of your life, babe. Sing all you want. I like to hear it."
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