I posted last week about my love of singing. That love began as a small child, and my parents were glad to exploit it. Can you blame them, really?
When I was four years old I was asked to sing in a wedding. And oh boy, it was so exciting! I got to wear a dress that matched the bridesmaids’ dresses, and I got to stand on the stage and sing my song, and I was cute and precious and adorable.
And I felt so grown up.
During the reception, they seated me at the head table. I don’t know if my memory is truly accurate (I was four after all), but I remember the head table being raised up higher than all the other tables. And I was sitting up there with a bunch of grownups I didn’t know, eating wedding cake with purple roses on it.
I remember those roses so clearly. I must have expressed my delight in their purple frosted goodness, because the groomsman next to me gave me the roses from his slice of cake. And then he begged all down the table and pretty soon my plate was piled high with purple icing roses. And I was four. What four-year-old is going to say, “No thank you, I think one purple frosting flower is quite enough”?
I ate those roses that matched my dress so amazingly and my tummy started to feel a little squalmish.
Someone decided I should sing again. They stood me up on a chair behind the head table in front of a microphone, and made me sing.
And I thought I was going to puke purple posies all over the head table, and in my vivid childish imagination, I pictured lavender vomit covering all the people “down below” in the reception as well.
I didn’t throw up. I made it through the song and lived to tell the tale. And I learned a valuable lesson.
Sometimes being all grown up just makes you want to puke.
(If you didn’t click on the link up above, you can click here if you want to hear me singing “Love Is” as a small child. It’s from the same link my dad posted last week, so if you listened to that you’ve already heard it).