The Sound of Silence

I can’t sing. At all. Or at least not much. If I play a note on the piano I can match the pitch easily enough, but I can’t do much else with it.  My mother couldn’t sing, but her parents could, as can at least one of my aunts. And my father. And *his* mother.

It’s dreadfully unfair. I’m not asking for much really. I don’t need to go on American Idol. I’d just like to be able to hold a tune for longer than 10 seconds before I go off key. I can’t even whistle.

The irony of it is that I’ve had several people tell me I sound like I should be an opera singer. Which would be awesome. Of course, I also had at least one ex-boyfriend tell me to stop trying to sing. Ever. And some mean boy in 8th grade homeroom told me he hated the sound of my voice. (And yeah, that was like 22 years ago, but so what? Hello, slow boil.)


Doubly ironic is that I actually hate the sound of my own voice too. Not what I hear in my head when I talk – that seems okay, but I’ve caught it on video tape a few times and it’s pretty…um. I don’t know what it is. Deep? Husky? Perhaps there’s a drowning frog in my esophagus.

When I’m sick with a cold, it gets a definite Demi Moore kind of throatiness to it, which is cool, but as to the rest of it? Big fat meh. I would probably prefer not to talk much at all.

Strange for someone like me, considering I spent so many years teaching computer classes. Hell, I presented to over 200 people at IBM’s LotusSphere one year. I understand it’s on video somewhere, but I have no desire to watch it. In fact, I think I’d rather blow out my eardrums.

Such is the power of sound for me. I’m aurally driven, so maybe that’s why I’m so sensitive. Which sucks, because there’s really nothing I can do about it. I’m stuck with what I have.

On the other hand? I can dance like a motherfucker.

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