Singing in the Shower

I don’t play the piano anymore. I can still rely on muscle memory. If I don’t think too hard my hands remember the shape of an A, or a G7. But this is all. I don’t really need it anymore.

I used to feel songs getting ready inside of me. Like a bird I would fuss and brood – waiting for lyrics to drop out, an egg into my clever little nest. My hands would form a chord progression that felt natural, like muscle memory only without the remembering.

I can’t remember precisely when I stopped thinking of myself as a musician. It must have been so gradual that I didn’t notice. But the other day, I found myself telling someone that I used to be a professional singer – and it didn’t make me sad. I didn’t really feel like I’d lost anything.

I like to tell people now that I got sick of the pop music scene. This isn’t entirely a lie. I was nearly assaulted by a producer who couldn’t believe I wasn’t willing to sleep with him in exchange for his connections. But it’s not the whole truth either. I don’t feel like I need the attention anymore. And thought I don’t like to admit it, that’s what music was for me. It was a way to get attention. The truth is that I never liked music enough to starve for it.

I still like attention. I’m not afraid to talk to people I’ve just met about politics, or sex. I can cold call anyone. On my resume, the last thing under my “skills” section is “immune to stage fright.” This is what makes me good at public relations. The rush I get from making a connection with a reporter feels every bit as good as the applause of a thousand people.

I still sing to myself, but I don’t ever sing my own songs. I usually pick a jazz standard. Lately it’s been “Teach me Tonight.” Sometimes I burst out with a riff worthy of Christina Aguilera, but mostly I leave that to her. I sometimes think of my talent like a fallow field. Perhaps someday songs will come rushing back to my lips and fingers. But for now I sing other people’s songs in the shower, and I smile while I’m doing it.