All I Want to Do is to Sing Happy Birthday Without Apologizing

 My granddaughter, Betsy, will be 19 on February 12, which gives me enough time to rehearse, and then call and sing to her the popular and banal "Happy Birthday," without my voice collapsing in the final notes.

Part of my distress in flunking at warbling is that Betsy, her mother, my other child and her two sons, can sing. So if their DNA permits this crowd to complete the yearly greetings, and leaves me usually ending the call jokingly with, "Sorry about this; to not spoil your birthday, I won't finish the song." Laughter ensues; I'm off the hook until another celebration demands a curtain call.

To make matters worse, Spouse #1 starred in community theatre, and dearly departed #2 crooned around our upright.

If you can sing, and I'm sharing hips with you in a chorus, I will catch your confidence and match you note for note. But if you should vanish from my side, my open mouth will be just that; open, sans sound.

Before you cue the violins, I should tell you that I don't have a terrible voice. In fact, four previous voice teachers will attest that I have a good ear, am not tone deaf, and can sing on pitch. So why after this quartet of professionals confirmed I am qualified to sing, have I just signed up for my 5th climb up the clef for "Relax, Breath, and Sing" at Chicago's Old Town School of Folk Music?

My angst at singing in public -- even to an audience of one birthday celebrant, or students in previous voice classes -- is not related to glossophobia, the fear of public speaking. As evidence, I have had glorious times appearing in front of many groups -- at book readings, for residents of senior housing, and women's clubs. On those occasions, I'm relaxed, funny, and adorable. Yet, here I go again, at age 82, enrolling and marking my calendar for eight Sundays.

Perhaps one reason I'm returning to The Old Town School of Folk Music, instead of say, a private vocal coach, is that one of their teachers, Gwen Pippen, came the closest to helping me reach my goal. Gwen was dedicated to supporting ordinary people fulfill their musical dreams and castigated others "who intimidated the less gifted into silence."

Several times a year, Gwen would feature her students in recitals, complete with costumes, props, and staging. I never had the nerve to participate, and after Gwen died in 2014, any thoughts of seeing myself on stage evaporated.

Think me foolish for continuing this folly? Let me buttress with I am the exemplar of Try, try, try again. For example, I finally learned how to swim at age 79 after six attempts during other pathetic laps with coaches from 1998 to 2019. Kathy Crowley Kelly -- who specializes in toddlers -- was my savior.

There's a saying: When the student is ready; the teacher will appear. I dispute this; I've been ready and eager to swim ever since Chicago Park District pools opened each summer. Why would I be more ready as an old lady, with fewer years ahead than behind?

Shi-An Costello was my 6th piano teacher who helped me achieve a simple goal: play Rodgers and Hart with only me for the audience. I was somewhere in the decade of my 70's for that, too.

I pin my success with Shi-An by his method of teaching me Seventh Chords. Thus prepared, I could cease trying to puzzle out notes on the bass clef of a staff and finally tap out the notes of "It Never Entered My Mind," the song Tommy and I discovered on our first date in 1996, was our mutual favorite .

The upcoming Old Town School of Folk Music teacher, Andrea Bunch, will be my latest guru, and promises in the catalog that in eight weeks, I will "learn vocal techniques which incorporate breath, relaxation, and singing techniques into song."

Because our class will be via Zoom, and I will be in my own comfortable and familiar surroundings, perhaps I will indeed conquer my musical malady. My pandemic attire -- t-shirts and elastic waistband leggings -- should encourage effortless breathing. And the likelihood I will be the oldest student in the group, may lead Andrea to grant me thumbs up for my chutzpah, and perhaps awe for my age's ability to navigate Zoom.

But if I should emerge after eight weeks of breathing and vocalizing, still unable to manage the Happy Birthday melody from its first C to its final F, there's always spring semester.

Help! My Wardrobe is Rebelling

A noise woke me from sleep. It didn't come from my dog Doris, who was cuddled and quiet next to me. Nor could I blame my upstairs neighbors for the mysterious sounds. I investigated further, and learned it was coming from my walk-in closet. Fearful an intruder had slipped into my apartment, I palmed my iPhone ready to call the police.

But before taking that step, I bravely opened the door a smidge, and it was then I learned that my wardrobe -- jeans, trousers, summer and winter tops, even shoes -- were grumbling amongst themselves.

 "It's disgusting," I heard the black-and-white patterned blouse carp to the scoop-necked sweater next to her. She was so riled up that her clothes hanger thumped as she spoke.

"I know, I know," responded the sweater. "Everyday, the only thing that ungrateful old lady wears is a t-shirt and leggings. No matter the season, the same obnoxious get-up."

A pair of jeans snickered, "You know why she loves those leggings?"

"Elastic waistband!" jean pals and trousers chorused.

The chest of drawers in the bedroom must have overheard the nearby commotion and the top one spit open with this: "No underwear! Did you guys know she is bare under her beloved t-shirt and leggings? It's obscene."

 I was embarrassed, but in my defense, I always wear an overcoat or vest outside the apartment; no one is aware I'm sans lingerie.

Since the gabby gang couldn't hear me, they continued their bashing. Then, sobbing from a sleeveless blouse. "I feel so used," said the one decorated with the alphabet. "When she got her second tattoo, she wore me or a mate every damn day! She thought she was so cool; an 82-year-old with two tattoos!"

She was right; so enamored by my ink -- one, a heart celebrating my artistic offspring, and the other a seahorse, honoring my accomplishment of finally learning to swim at age 79 -- that I flaunted my biceps when possible.

"I'm pissed," from a long-sleeved sweater swirling its empty arms. "I was there for her in her hour of need, and then, ta-ta-toots."

 A faux silk shirt with cuffs that buttoned upwards sniffed, "Costco. Vacation. Weather got cold."

 I couldn't believe how my clothing had turned on me. I was grateful my shelves of shoes had stayed silent, but then a pair of sandals slurred,"You all are sickening. Just because she hasn't worn you for six months, you're complaining.  What about me? Us?"

"She's right," a pair of leather high-heels, added. "She gave up wearing us years ago! Why has she kept us locked up in the closet? She could have donated us or dropped us off at a thrift shop. At least then, we'd have a chance for a new life. New people to appreciate us."

 Actually, that's a good idea, I thought, and promised myself I'd gather a collection and leave them in a charity box.

While I was congratulating myself for my benevolence, my pair of gym shoes drawled. "Y'all are just jealous because she wears me every day. But ya gotta understand, she's elderly and I keep her safe on her dog walks."

 I really appreciated my Sauconys for standing up for me, and thought the rebellion over. But then I heard a small voice peep out, "Masks. She's fallen in love with masks."

"Right?" posed another. "She must have collected 50! Protecting her wrinkled face while the rest of us hang helpless and abandoned."

A screech came from the bathroom, easily accessible from the walk-in closet. Moisturizer, foundation, concealer, lipstick, mascara, and eye shadow tumbled out of a slid-open drawer.

"What about us?" they sang out as if in a glee club. "She's ignored us all! Just because her face is tucked away under her mask, that's no reason to go around looking so, so..."

"Plain?" one of the club offered.

"Ugly?" said the mascara. "So she wears glasses, she shouldn't leave her eyelashes naked."

There were giggles from the group that derided my lack of underwear under my preferred costume. I ignored them, but then I thought, perhaps a bit of cosmetics could cheer me up? Perhaps the next morning I'd accede to their suggestion.

 But on the whole, while my wardrobe and makeup were just expressing their opinions, until I get the vaccine, I'm sticking to my comfy clothes and masks. My disgruntled duds will just have to be patient and hope that when I'm out and about, I'll drop my daily t-shirt and leggings, and pull old friends off their hangers.

 Then again..