For Love of Karaoke

The would-be cowboy stands at the microphone, his black western hat tilted rakishly back on his head; he has a scraggly beard and a definite paunch that is overshadowed by a huge rodeo belt and buckle. Without a trace of self-consciousness, he belts out his hopes and dreams of being Willie Nelson, if only for the few minutes allowed during the karaoke evening. The off-key notes and the amused glances of the audience do not seem to faze him. There is a vitality and happiness about him that catches my attention.

I sit watching from the bar, a middle-aged physician at her son's school for the weekend. Lulled by wine, away from work, I am seized by an unshakable urge to step up there after him. For a moment, a shutter in me goes up and I visualize myself singing with huge enjoyment and abandon. But this vision is soon replaced by one of me in my white coat, a stethoscope around my neck, bending over a patient in my office. I am that earnest, hard-working, sensible physician once again.

As the days go by, a wistfulness persists about my karaoke inhibitions. I am struck by seemingly unassailable evidence of the restrictions I have placed on myself and the toll of …