Last night I forgot how to sleep.
Twenty-four hours prior, I was trying to doze off an allergic reaction triggered by cats that left my eyelids plumper than cherry tomatoes. I woke up Saturday morning unable to open my eyes and it hurt to look in a mirror. I called out of my weekend job and prayed that I could save face.
Thankfully, by 4 a.m. Sunday morning, I looked like myself again. But now there was another problem: nervous insomnia since today was the day I would audition for The Voice, the star-studded singing contest judged by music stars Blake Shelton, Christina Aguilera, Adam Levine and Cee Lo Green.
When I was a chubby toddler, I toted around a portable karaoke machine when girls my age preferred Barbie dolls. My first stage encounter was at 1 or 2 years old. The story goes that I sneaked under the table at a formal dinner and when my parents tried to find me, there I was in all my gibberish glory trying to outshine the singer in front of the room. And the rest, as they say, was her-story.
Though I’m no powerhouse diva, I have no shame breaking out a couple notes. I was a solid alto in my high school’s chorus group and even R&B-mixed John Lennon’s “Imagine” in my first ever solo stint.
It took two less than stellar performances of DJ Sammy’s “Heaven” during a singing contest and an acoustic version of Mario’s “Crying Out For Me” (struggle soprano notes and all) to make me quit the game, though they never stopped me from having private concerts in the shower or at Starbucks when I was a barista. Random strangers asking if I could sing from just hearing my speaking voice has been more than enough for me to keep the embers of a scorched passion from completely dying out.The Voicewould help reignite that…