Found myself doing one of those embarrasing things that you’re half-oblivious to until midway through them. As if you suddenly wake up and find yourself in a stupid-acting dream, then quickly look around, hoping that noone saw you act like a total moron.
Sadly, I wasn’t so lucky.
In the middle of a loud, animated rendition of “Walking on Sunshine” by Katrina and the Waves this morning, I realized that I was doing the following:
Singing at the top of my lungs, but only remembering 2/3 of the words. Not toxic in itself, but perhaps when combined with…
…car-seat dancing. You know the drill. Sort of shaking your booty as much as you can, allthewhile restrained in a seatbelt, which only leads to wrinkly new silk skirts and looking like a dork. But not nearly that bad until I decided to…
…”raise the roof”. The quintessential hand-push-to-the-ceiling, best served when accompanying Nelly or Jay-Z. Still, somewhat innocent in itself. Until I realized that, and this is the killer,…
…my windows were open.
Did the immediate “glance to the right, glance to the left,” hoping against hope that they would be minding their own business and not staring at the freakazoid who clearly needed singing lessons.
No, on this given day in Atlanta, it was uncharacteristically cool and haze-less, with a nice breeze blowing in the 60-degree morning. Making half the city rejoice, and ride to work with their windows down. Resultingly, hottie Ford Expedition-driver to my right and Z3 driver to my left got quite a show.
Like Madonna at her concert here last night, I aim to please. My performances will NEVER let down my fans. So, instead of ducking behind my rental-car blue-faux-leather steering wheel, you know what I did?
Turned it up and raised the roof.
As unabashful as ever,