I'm going to Jackson

If you happen to stop beside me at a red light you might just get lucky to catch a free show.
I sing along in the car. In the shower. In class. Elevators. And occasionally even in the store when they are playing a good song.
Sometimes I even dance.

This is the part where I should tell you that I do NONE of these things well.
I sing off key.
I come in early.
I sometimes make up words when I do not know them.
My dancing could easily be mistaken for a seizure.

But in the car and  the shower and pretty much everywhere else you catch me singing along to the radio….
I think I sound decent.
Not great. But ok.
That is usually because my car speakers are turned up so loud that no one can hear themselves think.

Some of my friends have been trying to get us to karaoke for months now. It sounded fun and terrible to me all at the same time. Every one of my past karaoke experiences were in a packed bar with lots of drunk people who make for an easy crowd to please, plus plenty liquid courage myself and way before people carried around cell phones that could record the evidence.
This was different. 
This was a tiny room. With just 5 of my friends.
And almost completely sober.

I was eager for someone else to go first. But, I also struggle to pass up a microphone.
I butchered the hell out of some Salt N Pepa.
I felt awkward and embarrassed.
Then my husband took the microphone and was absolutely TERRIBLE.
Like one of those bad auditions on American Idol.
He finished the song and some friends who know how to carry a tune grabbed the mic and were the opposite of terrible.
But.
We all kept singing. Even when the waitress came in and could not hide the pain in her face from my voice. Or possibly my dance moves.

Something happened after few Bon Jovi, Celine Dion, Beastie Boys and Journey songs. I forgot that I was supposed to feel awkward or embarrassed. It was just fun. Shaun and I even managed to make a pretty great Johnny Cash and June Carter for the duet “Jackson”.
My stomach hurt from laughing.
My voice hurt from singing/rapping/screaming at the top of my lungs.
And we drove home thinking of all the songs we need to sing next time because there will be a next time...and seriously considered having everyone sign a waiver that no video footage would be leaked to social media!

There is something so freeing about doing something that you love even if you suck at it.
Not doing it to please or impress but because something inside just feels good to sing and dance Taylor Swift lyrics like you were born to.

Yesterday, I went to a yoga class.
Now, I love me some sweaty yoga but much like karaoke I am absolutely awful at it. 
Horrible. Terrible. No Good. Very bad.
For multiple reasons, 1) I have the upper body strength of a very weak kitten.
2) I have the flexibility of a brick and  3) It requires being quiet and wearing spandex -- neither of which I am fond of. I am pretty sure everyone else in the crowded room is wondering why the hell I can’t figure out what pose we are supposed to be in. Why my arms feel like noodles after just a few chaturangas.  Noticing that I could not touch my toes if my life depended on it. That my legs are extended as far as I can possibly get them. And praying that I will slip in the pool of sweat accumulating on my mat the next time I try to find my downward facing dog.
"Feel free to pop into a head stand", the instructor says.
Yea… sure….The only way I stand on my head is when there is someone on each side holding me up.

In other words, I was hesitant to go to this class and why I haven't been to a class in almost a year.
Mostly out of fear of  looking stupid. Of Not knowing what to do. Of falling. Of saying or wearing the wrong thing. I was afraid to be the worst one in the room. And I quite possibly was. I breathed in and out anyways. My arms felt flimsy and my legs never got very straight. I seriously doubt anyone noticed or thought all those crazy things about me because they were too busy breathing and standing on their head.

But it also felt kind of like karaoke.
In the dark.
On your mat.
Laying in your own sweat.
The instructors always end class the exact same way.
“Thank you for practicing with me”
Practicing.
Not proving.
Or competing.
Or showing up or off.
Or getting it right.
But showing up.
Trying.
Getting better.

Singing loudly.
Or breathing loudly.

Namaste.
Look out Jackson town.




and I am loving loving this T.Swift mashup