It’s started already. People are falling under the spell of the new me with my fabulous new glasses. Fame and fortune are within my grasp; as is utter humiliation. To wit:

The scene is the church kitchen. Choir rehearsal has finished, and I am hiding in the kitchen sucking down a cup of coffee before it’s time to go upstairs for the service. I’m chatting with a fellow choir member. We are having a deeply spiritual conversation about the relative merits of various coffee makers.

Him: So yeah, it works pretty well, but it has one of those permanent filters, and so the coffee always tastes a little plasticy.
Me: Mmmm, plastic coffee!
Him: But you can use a regular paper filter, I guess. That would probably fix that problem.
Me: Uh huh. And how long have you been enjoying your plastic-flavored coffee?

The door swings open and the choir director sticks her head in. She looks around until she sees me, then points at me.

Her: Can you do an F?
Me: *blank stare*
Her: A high F. Can you hit a high F?
Me: Oh. Yeah, sure.
Her: Great! *she turns to leave*
Me: WAIT. Why?
Her: Will you be at rehearsal on Thursday?
Me: Yes…?
Her: Great! *she turns to leave*
Me: WHY??
Her: Yoooouuuu’ll see!
*The choir director leaves and I swear we can hear her cackling all the way up the stairs.*
Me: Ack…?
Him: I think you’ve just been the victim of a hit-n-run solo.
Me: Goody.

You see, I do not mind singing solos. Truth be known, I’m a bit of an attention monger (shocking, I know). We’ve started rehearsals for our Christmas concert and I usually get assigned something extra and so yes, fine, a solo, excellent. But there’s a big difference between “Can you hit a high F for maybe an eighth note duration amongst the entire choir of voices” and “Can you hit a high F for perhaps a very long time when yours is the only voice singing.”

Because, friends, I am an alto. Okay, fine. On the off chance that my voice teacher from high school is reading this: I’m technically a mezzo, which means my range falls inbetween an alto and a soprano. But in most standard choral arrangements, one is either an alto or a soprano.

For those of you who don’t sing, that means that I sing low. It means that while the chirpy ladies in the front row are singing melody just as perky as can be, I am in the second row singing some sort of low funky harmony filled with lots of sharps and flats and other weirdness, but no high Fs. I like it that way.

I’m ready to work up a new ad campaign for the makers of my frames. “Look smart, sexy, hip… and more like a soprano. Just see if you don’t.” I mean, it’s possible the choir director was just smoking crack or something, but I tend to think it was the glasses.

Please check back next Thursday for a full-fledged panic attack, depending on what I find out. Also, if you’d like to come to our Christmas concert this year? It’s on Sunday the eleventeenth of Pretendember. I hope you can all make it.