A massive Dodge Ram rumbled up next to me. The truck towered over my little Toyota clown car, and I glanced over to see a beefy, tattooed arm draped out the window. A hairy man-paw was tapping on the outside of the door to the beat of whatever the driver had blasting on the speakers. From what I could tell from my limited vantage point, the driver was your everyday Midwestern redneck, scruffy and beer-gutted and proud to be an American.
It was then that I noticed that this particular man was singing louder and more proudly than I ever have in my entire life. And the song blasting on the stereo wasn’t man’s-man country music.
*Note: This is a post that was originally published on May 29, 2012. I thankfully no longer live in an apartment, and after taking several months of vocal lessons and forcing myself to sing karaoke with friends at dimly-lit bars, my stage fright has been reduced to a tingling insecurity rather than full-fledged panic attack material. Baby steps, you know.