By Ilene Black
I’d like to talk to you about gas. Not the kind that your lawnmower or weed-wacker or car needs to run. I am referring to the gas that relates to our digestive systems.
You know what I mean. The gas that causes us to… okay, the word begins with an F and rhymes with heart. That gas. In the interest of keeping this column relatively clean and family-friendly, I shall be referring to the gaseous emissions as “singing” instead of… you know. That other word.
Years ago, I rarely sang. Rarely. And if I did, it was either silent or a mere whisper. But lately? I am singing a lot! Loudly, at times. And yes, in public, although I try very hard not to sing in public. But it’s hard. Let’s face it. If you gotta sing, you gotta sing. And the older you get, the more frequent your singing becomes.
When I am alone, I sing to my heart’s content, secure in the knowledge that Mojo, who frequently sings really terribly, doesn’t care.
Even if George is around, I sing whenever I feel the need. When my sons are over, I try not to sing as freely as I normally do, but sometimes one cannot control the amount or volume of singing that needs to be done.
Plus, both my sons are immature like me, so they don’t get offended at my singing. However, when they are over with their girlfriends, I often find myself running to the back of the house to sing, not wanting them to think less of me for singing at high volume.
Driving, I sing. At work, I sing. In the ladies room, if I am alone, I sing freely. But if someone is in a public ladies room when I’m in there, and I cannot control the singing, then I usually cough really loudly to try and cover up the sound of my singing. It is not always effective.
I have quickly run from aisles in stores directly after I have sung. You know how when you go to a store looking for greeting cards and you and a bunch of other people are standing in the aisle staring at the card display?
For some reason, my body wants to burst into song every time I am shopping for greeting cards. I have often grabbed the nearest greeting card from the display and run away from the crowd, all the while singing. Or, if I really need a special card that will properly convey my good wishes or esteem for the person who will get the card and I can’t beat it out of that aisle right away, despite my penchant for singing, then I move my foot weirdly so that it appears my shpw is squeakily singing and not me. Genius, right?
Grocery shopping in Marrazzo’s is a prime place for me to belt out a song or two. And fortunately or unfortunately (depends on how you look at it), I always know someone in that store. I could be selecting produce, trying not to sing, and an old friend inevitably walks up to me and wants to chat. Try and stop singing in mid-song in order to make small talk. It ain’t easy.
Church. Church is a tough place to have power over your singing. I have dropped hymnals on the wooden pew loudly on purpose to mask the sound of my singing. Going up to communion, I use the shoe squeak trick. Not sure it’s effective, especially for the poor soul behind me.
I have never needed to sing at any funerals but I am sure, as I age, I will be singing there too. Even rolling over in bed causes me to break out into song these days. Bending over to retrieve something, or to tie my shoes, or to dust the furniture? Lately, I have been singing my lungs out. That is yet another reason why I do not plan on ever going to a formal exercise class.
Georgia O’Keeffe, the 20th century American painter, said, “Singing has always seemed to me the most perfect means of expression. It is so spontaneous”
See, even Georgia O’Keeffe had the same problem.
Ilene Black has been a resident of Ewing for most of her life and lives across the street from her childhood home. She and her husband, George, have two sons, Georgie, 32, and Donnie, 28.
