I love to sing loudly

I’m an opera singer. Well, that’s not exactly true; perhaps I should rephrase that. I sing opera.
Well, I might tighten that a bit further and say I pretend I can sing opera.
There, that seems a bit more accurate. This is a newspaper, after all, whose mandate is to report the truth, or derivatives thereof.
As I wander around my house, I sing. I sing loudly—conducting myself, of course, at times and I’m guessing I sing not very well.
I like to think I sing well, but there’s that truth factor thing again. And judging from the reaction of my loyal pets, it is fair to say I don’t sing all that well and, as they say, I won’t give up my day job.
The cats run, run fast to be somewhere else, anywhere else. But still I sing. I love to sing.
This might be the appropriate moment to mention I won the Elfie Forsberg trophy when I was 10 years old. I know, I’ve mentioned it a few times. My apologies. The trophy was awarded to the “Most Promising Voice of Girls Sixteen Years and Under.”
Suffice to say that promise was broken somewhere along the line. I’m not sure exactly when, but rather quickly I’m thinking, but still … I like to sing.
I used to sing while skiing with my daughters on my annual ski with them—much to the chagrin of Samantha, who stated emphatically that people don’t sing while they ski.
I sang in the grocery store and aroused the same reaction from her with words like, “You are embarrassing me.”
My sister and I used to sing “Mary Had a Little Lamb” in the most dreadful harmony we could muster and we thought we were hilarious. We weren’t.
I don’t want an audience when I sing. I don’t want to record a CD or whatever it is now that singers record. Having said that, when I sing, I pretend I am singing at Massey Hall and at Carnegie Hall and other great halls around the world.
I walk out on stage and I can hear a pin drop because the hall is completely empty, except for me. I am alone on the stage enjoying the rather delicious acoustics as I draw in my breath and belt out my tunes.
The voice I hear in my head is a lot like the female version of Nathan Pacheco and his perfect rendition of “Bring Him Home” from “Les Miserables.”
I’m not into hard-core opera in Latin or Italian or whatever language they sing. I’m more middle-of-the-road opera like Andrew Lloyd Webber’s “Phantom of the Opera” and music of that ilk.
I pretend to sing a great cover of “The Lord’s Prayer” in the uncanny likeness of Andrea Bocelli.
I know what you are thinking; that I am odd. It’s true. I concur; I am odd. There are moments when I am in a crowded room or elevator, and I think I would like to start singing as loudly as I possibly can.
The thought of that makes me giggle—imagining the reaction of those around me.
I shall put that on my bucket list, when I have senility as an excuse and a healthier dose of I don’t care. But for now, I’ll just sing in my home. It’s safe to sing here.
That’s the best part about home; we’re safe to be who we really are.