"Kels, how much alcohol would it take to get you to do karaoke?"
It's late summer and we're siting around a picnic table in South Minneapolis. I don't know why or how, but the conversation has turned to how much I love to sing and how bad I am at it. The teasing is sweet and good-natured, and while I'm exhausted and have had a string of bad weeks, I'm inclined to take it rather than dish back.
"It's a Catch-22. The amount of alcohol required for me to be that brave is greater than the amount of alcohol that would cause me to pass out."
"So it's never going to happen?"
"Never."
From across the table I can hear someone mutter "Thank God."
***
"THIS IS MY JAM!" I grab Maggie's hand and drag her to the dance floor.
I don't leave, except to get a glass of water, for the next three hours.
Somewhere between playing air-guitar to Don't Stop Believing and rapping all of California Love a friend from college I haven't seen in years bursts out laughing. "Who the hell are you and what have you done with our friend, Kelly?"
I just smile and shake it for him.
***
Recently, while attempting to convince me to do karaoke, a friend described me as "a self-serious, attention-adverse introvert."
It is, I'll admit (grudgingly) an apt description.
I despise being the center of attention in large groups of people (or small groups of people where I don't know anyone.) I am deeply, painfully shy and have a hard time thinking about what to say to people I don't know.
It's not a character flaw, it's just the way I am.
As a result, I've cultivated interests and hobbies that don't require, you know, anything remotely close to being the center of attention (distance running, reading, snarky muttered observations) or help me create a little psychic distance between myself and other people (first-person memoir, the occasional cosplaying (OMFGOD, I need an excuse to do Amaterasu from The Wicked + The Divine, like, now)).
Karaoke does not fall into either of those categories.
***
"Kelly Prosen! Dance Floor Rock Star!"
The bride has an open chair next to hear and the band has taken a break so I take the opportunity to catch up. I shrug.
"They played my jam."
"Which one?"
"Billie Jean."
"Yeah, that's a great song."
"When I was living in China, whenever a group of three or more Americans walked into a bar they would play one of two songs. The Jay-Z song that was popular at that point in time or Billie Jean." I smile. "While we were dancing Kristin told me that she can't hear that song without thinking about me, in China, dancing every time I heard it, and that it always makes her happy."
Jessie laughs. "I can see where imagining you dancing would make someone pretty happy."
***
My phone starts buzzing in my pocket. It's one of my dinner guests, asking me to bring them up. I pull it out, assure them I will be down momentarily, and realize I have a text message from about forty minutes earlier.
"Most. Epic. Pocket. Dial. Ever. I can only assume that was your American Idol audition. Don't listen to the critics, kid. Go with your heart."
I check my recent call log, think for a moment, get a full body blush going, and start looking for a piece of furniture to hide under. The only people I will sing in front of are people who knew me at the tail end of my emo/punk stage (or earlier), people who are, at this point, pretty much required to love me.
Aside from that, I sing exclusively when no when else can hear me: in the shower, in my car, in the kitchen.
When I tell Michelle (two weeks later, still blushing) about the pocket dial she laughs so hard she ends up with milkshake up her nose.
"Oh, c'mon." I beg. "I mean, maybe it's possible I didn't sound that bad."
"Honey, have you heard yourself? And with someone who doesn't know you that well? This falls under the category of 'Change your name and move to Saigon.'"
I put my head in my hands.
***
"This music blows."
"Yeah. I agree."
My older brother and I are sitting around a campfire at a family reunion. We're listening to something neither of us likes. Most of the family is around the corner playing Jarts or putting their kids to bed. My younger brother comes and flops down on the grass next to us.
"Man, someone needs to change the radio." He grouses.
My mother comes by and inquires what we're up to, why we're not playing games or swimming or whatever. After a moment's pause she asks, "Do you guys want to have a dance party?"
My brother bolts out of his chair and runs for his ipod. "What should we listen to?"
"MJ!"
"Michael!"
"Michael Jackson!"
The four of us have an impromptu Michael Jackson dance party. In the middle of the Northern Wisconsin woods.
I love my family.
***
I feel hands on my hips and hear a voice in my ear.
"I like the groove of your walk, your talk, your dress."
I spin around, stand up on tiptoes, and wrap my arms around his neck, and give him a big kiss out of sheer exuberance.
"Careful, honey. You're going to make my boyfriend jealous."
"THIS IS MY JAM!"
"Didn't you say that about Billie Jean? And You Shook Me All Night Long? And Only Girl in the World? And . . ."
I stick my tongue out at him. "Are you going to stand there talking, or are you going to dance with me?"
He laughs. "I'm going to go get a drink and watch you dance, girl. I don't get a chance to see you like this very often."
I smile. "I'm like this exclusively when I can dance."
"I like it." He gives me a twirl and pulls me in to whisper one last thing in my ear.
"You knock me off of my feet."
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