I understand the point behind it, but I always find it obnoxious when people say “No, you can sing. You just can’t sing well.” No, I can’t sing and if you tell me that it’s time for me to get a watch again after I ask you what time it is, I will cut you out of my life entirely.
But in all seriousness, I can NOT sing. I can screech in a way that you may be able to cautiously guess is me trying to sing, but I can’t sing. But almost every weekend I drive on home and all the way back to Chadron and have some quality time with my vocal chords. My, oh my, do I belt it. And it makes the four and a half hours (one way) of driving bearable. I pretend that I CAN sing and I am glorious. (I turn the radio up so loud that I can’t even hear myself, so that’s how that works.) I pretend that I’m a world-famous singer – the profession I dreamt of all throughout my childhood. I have killer moves (funny because something I also completely lack in real life is the ability to dance). I strut my stuff (while sitting, mind you, because I am driving) and I’m just such a stinking diva! It’s good to have an imagination. It’s what makes the monotonous less miserable. It’s what makes the mundane memorable. And it’s what makes the mind-numbing magnificent.