I decided this in the fifth grade, and not one to let small matters like talent get in my way, I whipped together a cute little act for my school's talent show.
I decided I would sing "Would You Like to Swing on a Star" because at eleven I was a dead-ringer for Bing Crosby. Actually, I picked that song because my little brother was obsessed with Little Lulu and Bout with a Trout was a particular favorite in our house.
I picked out a satiny dress, had my mother curl my hair, and enlisted a family friend to accompany me on piano.
The performance was an astounding flop. For one, I can't sing. And then there was the small issue of getting so nervous I GASP! re-sang the same verse twice in row, realized half way through, and burst into tears. That pretty much ended my stage career. At least it ended my "in reality" stage career. Because in my head, I've just released my sixth album and it's a smashing success. I just stay away from the Bing Crosby stuff now.
But lately I've been able to provide some resolution for my inner eleven year old. Turns out that "in reality" I've actually cultivated a few real fans. And not just people who are clapping because they feel bad for me because I'm crying and look like I'm going to pee my pants.
My fans? Are six months old. Do I worry that perhaps my fans are simply victims of poor taste? This could be the case, since they also share an insane love for Bonnie Hunt and Sally Field, squirming with delight at the sheer sound of either melodious voice or grandmotherly face on the TV.
No bother. Apparently, my rendition of "Itsy Bitsy Spider" is like the heavens opening and showering glittering diamonds of love on the earth. Really, who am I to judge?
Since I am a kick-ass rock star, I host private concerts on demand and am even willing to repeat the same song twenty eight times in a row. I also am way nicer to my fans than most famous people. Sometimes, I even wipe their adorable little bums.
I bet Bing Crosby would have felt too sophisticated for that.