I didn’t celebrate National Burrito Day. I failed my brother by not posting an awkward picture of us on Facebook for National Siblings Day yesterday. I decided to see what holidays I’ve overlooked today.
You guys. We almost missed National Barbershop Quartet Day.
As much as I want to dive into what I’m sure is a lengthy history of barbershop quartets, I’m going to skip it. Instead, I’ll share what I know of my own choir experience. I was in choir throughout high school. And, to ratchet up my cool points further, I was in show choir. We sang, and “danced,” and had very expressive hand gestures (occasionally jazz hands).
I was (and still am) a second alto. See, there’s first soprano (the girls who can hit the high notes), the second sopranos, the first altos, and the second altos. The second altos could hit the low notes. The really low notes. Mm-hmm. So, as you can imagine, we never had the melodies. We harmonized. In the murky waters of the bass clef, frequently.
We, the second altos, were not particularly popular in the land of the show choir elite. Our dynamics were hard to recognize. I don’t know why I remember this, but I do recall singing this particular song:
Note: Our dresses were similar. We referred to the color as smurf blue. They were a bit shorter, though, to really draw attention to our sassy character shoes.
I tried to find somewhere that highlighted only the second alto portion, but came up empty. SAD. We added depth. We were the hidden notes of spruce in a glass of cabernet. We were those guys.
If you were wondering, the answer is yes. Most of the time, when I sing karaoke, I sing songs performed by men. Baritones, specifically.
Allow me to interrupt myself here. I’m writing because I need to reestablish my habit of writing. I didn’t want to write tonight. But, if I skipped work every time I didn’t want to go to work, I wouldn’t have a job. I’m dialing it in tonight, and I know it. Humor me. I was somehow going to tie all this back into how much I love acapella groups and how Pitch Perfect is incredible, but the entertainment element has fled.
The truth is, I got next to no sleep last night. There are too many friends to count going through rough patches right now (looking at you, mercury retrograde and full moon and other astrological tomfoolery), and my daughter decided that 3:00 was the perfect time to wake up this morning. I’m running on fumes. I’m running on the fumes of fumes.
Tired children do not wind up sullen and cranky at bedtime the following night. Tired children wind up hyperactive and unfocused and flail-y. They have no filter. I’m about to put one of these tired children to bed. Pray for me.
And also pray for barbershop quartets. Because today is their day.