I can’t get Marvin Gaye out of my head. His songs are burned into my mind like a sexy tattoo painted right on my face. Does that make sense?
The other day I was in the library, diligently researching the mating habits of mallard ducks when I noticed a shaggy-haired Italian exchange student looking at me with confused delight on his face. I turned down my iPod and realized I’d been singing “Let’s Get It On” at a tone I would barely categorize as “under my breath.”
This is one of many times in my life I’ve unconsciously vocalized an inappropriate song in an otherwise normal situation. My voice box has a mind of its own. It’s confusing, because most of these instances are soundtracked by songs I haven’t heard since childhood.
Just the other day I was washing my hands in the ladies room in Willamette, when I started, God knows why, singing “How Do I Live Without You” by LeAnn Rimes. My supposed solitude was disrupted by a silencing flush. A middle-aged woman emerged from the stall and began to wash her hands, playing it casual and cool. Standing side-by-side in personal isolation, we both knew the awkwardly amazing truth…
It would be nice to have someone join me in my karaoke fantasy world once in a while. If that exchange student had the social courage to stretch his vocal chords, we might have had the entire Knight Library getting down to Marvin. Imagine that… or don’t, because it’s a potentially disturbing image. My fleeting relationship with the Willamette-bathroom woman would have taken flight if only we’d harmonized during my momentary lame-country-song lapse. “How do I Live Without You” cements any budding friendship in my experience.
These instances theoretically play out well, but I can assure you, I’m no dancing fool who believes everyone should hold hands and join together in song. For example, I was waiting for my professor to return to his desk when, caught with a moment alone, I started humming The Police’s “Don’t Stand So Close to Me.” If you know the lyrics to that song, you’d know I was humming just about the brashest ballad possible for a professor’s office. I assure you it had nothing to do with the actual situation. (Damn, this is going to be weird on Monday if he reads my columns.)
This particular outburst made me consider my twisted subconscious. I blame pop culture for my musical meanderings, but at the same time, who would I be with out these annoyingly infectious melodies? Some quiet, introverted basket weaver, I should think. (Not that I wouldn’t love that job, actually.)
We all belt out our favorite love ballads when we’re with friends at colloquial and/or sloshy social gatherings. But can’t a lady sing a little Prince while sorting through the racks at Buffalo Exchange without people furtively inching away? Let’s face it: Life as a musical (music of your own choosing, I might add), makes everyone a little bit happier. I mean, it worked in “RENT.” Kind of… Oh, God, someone stop me.
Again, I’ve amazed myself with my inappropriateness. You’d be shocked and appalled to know right now I’m humming Phil Collins’ “Against All Odds (Take a Look at Me Now),” to my cat, who couldn’t care less. So I guess it’s fitting.
One day this is going to get me into trouble. I’m doing my best to suppress my astonishingly accurate memory of the lyrics to every Bone Thugs-n-Harmony song I’ve ever heard. Wish me luck… I’ll see you at the crossroads.
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