Four Things Girls Should Stop Saying About Being A Girl

When I was in college, someone asked me about my siblings. "I have three brothers," I told them. "Oh," this person remarked, "That's why you're so cool. Raised with all boys."



At the time, I wore this like a badge of honor. Yeah, I thought, I'm awesome because I have all brothers. Thank goodness I'm not one of those pansies that was raised in a family of all girls!

Since then, I've realized that this was kind of a crap thing to say. My brothers were indeed cool. But it wasn't their "boyness" that made them that way. Nor was it exposure to testosterone that made me who I am.

Over the years I've heard various versions of this sentiment from men and women alike. Call them microaggressions if you want. I call them "statements that bum me out and make me want to violently hug you." So I've compiled a list. These are the false badges of honor I've heard women pin on themselves. Or maybe they were pinned on by someone else. But... can we please stop being proud of these things?


"I'm cool because...

1. ...my dad wanted a boy."

I've heard this when women want to explain why they know about cars or guns or whatever. It's depressing for a few reasons. First, your dad wanted a boy? What the heck? Besides this being a serious and horrible issue in China in the 1980s and 90s, it's just a plain awful thing to say. I hope your dad never actually told you that. Or if he did, he ended the sentence with "...but what a fool I was! You're a precious angel from Heaven." Second, girls can know things about cars and guns and whatever just because that's what they're into.

2. ...I'm not like other girls."

What's so wrong with other girls that you need to distance yourself? There are no "other girls." We are all girls. Which is bomb, btw. One of my absolute favorite Buzzfeed articles discusses this concept hilariously.

3. ...I don't have many girlfriends."

This is a tragedy, not a victory. Here's one of my favorite comics on the subject.




4. ...I'm not very good at being a girl."

What does that even mean? All you have to do to be a girl is have a vagina. If you're not good at make-up, then say that. But girls aren't given a handbook on beauty and fashion when they're born.


Basically, being a lady is great and we should stop belittling it with tiny, weird, negative thoughts. My identity as a woman isn't based on how well I've been able maximize the influence of men in my life. Or my ability to curb the influence of other women in my life. I've benefitted greatly from the support and encouragement of many people, men and women inclusive.

What was his name?

As many of you know, my dad passed away when I was a kid. This is not the kind of thing people like to talk about while standing in line at Subway or getting their hair done. It's a heavy conversation. Often stumbled into, accidentally brought up. And once we're there, things can get difficult and awkward.

You see, people don't really know what to say when you tell them that your dad (or anyone else near and dear) died. I've heard many responses.

When?
How?
I'm sorry.
How old were you?
I'm sorry.
Wow, that's really tough.
That must have been really hard.
I'm sorry.

All these responses are understandable. Sometimes they come out as knee-jerk reactions. Sometimes people ask for too much detail (what am I, an episode of Dateline?). Some people don't know what to say at all. Either way, it can be very difficult to navigate.

(If you've been there, here's a tip for how to respond when someone says "I'm sorry." Just say "thank you." I know that makes no sense, but for some reason it's the right thing to say.)

But one time, when I was about 16, I had an interaction that was delightfully different. All because someone asked an entirely different question. I was at a youth conference, talking with one of the presenters. He thought he knew my parents.

Presenter: What are your parents names?
Me: Uh. Christine Stryker.
Presenter: What about your dad?
Me: He's actually passed away.
Presenter: Well, what was his name?

This guy wasn't asking my dad's name out of compassion -- he legit was trying to figure out if he knew my parents. But it was the first time anyone had asked me that. And I loved it.

The trouble with talking to someone about a family member that passed away is -- you've never met the person who died. It's like a big block that sits between you and whoever you're talking to. They have a strong connection to someone you'll never meet. That's why I was so relieved when, instead of saying "I'm sorry" or asking me how old I was when he died, this guy asked me my dad's name. Suddenly the focus wasn't on me and my sad situation, it was on my dad. We weren't talking about me anymore. We were talking about him. How cool is that?

Ever since that happened, I've used this question when entering this territory with my friends. On a date once, my friend told me that his dad had passed away. "What was his name?" I asked.

He smiled. Actually smiled. "George."

This is me and my dad. In case you're curious, his name was Tim.

Better Advice for Girls

Sometimes spontaneous lady snuggles are the perfect solution.

If there is one piece of advice that I remember hearing non-stop as a kid - from parents, teachers, television, princess movies, happy meal boxes - it's "be yourself".

As a kid, people telling me this was roughly equivalent to throwing a raisin at my face. Raisins aren't bad, and certainly won't hurt you if someone throws one at your face, but chances are that it will just bounce off and you'll be confused about what happened.

Be myself? OK done. I'm pretty sure that I am a small blonde child. I will continue to be that.

I'm not saying this is bad advice, but as a kid my understanding of what that meant was pretty limited. Even as an adult, the phrase makes my head spin a bit. Am I being me? I think so. I'm eating pizza, which is a thing I like. But also I'm wearing peep toe shoes. Are they me? Who am I???

Maybe there is better, more specific advice we can give the rising generation to help them find happiness and carve their own place in the world. Or maybe the rising generation is smarter than me so "be yourself" is all they need. But when I was a kid, I would have appreciated more specificity. "Oh, so you would like me to NOT buy New Balance shoes just because Brittany Durin has New Balance shoes. That makes sense, I guess."


1. Everyone looks different.

Really, there are not two people who look the same. It may seem like everyone around you looks the same and has the same perfect body/hair/skin/cardigan/whatever and that you are the odd man out with your different-ness, but really: everyone looks different. Coming to understand this has helped me to better appreciate what I look like.

You're not surrounded by identical beauty queens -- everyone has different size and shape of thigh, different length of torso, different color of hair. And none of these sizes/shapes/colors are the "right one" or the "perfect one". You are part of the heterogeneous group - a super cool club called "everyone in the universe."

So just appreciate what you have. No one else looks like you. And no one else looks like each other. Plus physical appearance isn't really that important anyway (unless you want to be a Victoria's Secret model, but do you really?).

2. You are not special - you are capable.

You are not special. Sad day.

A while back I read an excellent article about how we do a disservice to little girls by telling them that they are "beautiful" and "smart". Little boys are more likely to hear things like "your figured it out" or "way to stick with it". The former implies that these little girls are naturally gifted or inherently smart. The other one praises children for their ability to overcome challenges and figure things out.

This means, if a child in the first category finds something difficult or fails at something, they might believe "I just wasn't meant to be a _____" or "I'm not a math person (art person, dance person, etc.)". A child in the second category, conversely, might think, "I haven't figured it out yet." See the difference? It's significant.

There are people who are inherently geniuses or naturally gifted with certain things, but you're probably not one of them (don't worry, neither am I). Furthermore, even if you are born with craze-mazing abilities -- imagine how much further you can get by relying on your ability to figure out tough things and stick with projects when they get hard. That is when "You can do this" becomes relevant and beautiful advice.

In Amy Poehler's book Yes Please, she talks about how she got where she is. The answer was pretty simple. Many years of very hard work. Anyone can do that. There are some lucky breaks and yes, some people have life handed to them on a doily, but we underestimate ourselves when we say, "I could never be on Saturday Night Live/write the next Harry Potter book/run my own engineering firm (is that a thing?)." Because yes, you could.

You are capable. You can do unlimited things.

3. When girls feel insecure, weird things happen.

While watching The Bachelor this week (as one does), I was fascinated by the ways the participants manifested their insecurity. The Bachelor is a FANTASTIC case study on what women do/say when they feel insecure. Some women shrink and become quiet, some women get loud and attention-seeking, some women cry, some women get really mean. Some women do all of it. One thing is for sure - it brings out the worst in us.

I'm so sorry this happens and I would love to say that I have never fallen into the "mean girl" category, but I have. When I have felt unpretty or uncool or undesirable, I have made crappy decisions to try to compensate for my insecurity. Because women are social creatures, they often band together to seek validation and make themselves feel better. Sometimes, to distract people from looking too closely at them, they talk negatively about others. This sucks.

It's important to know where this comes from, though. That way, when you find yourself feeling insecure ("I'm not very good at bowling", "My thighs touch at the top", "My dress was hand-sewed by my mom instead of purchased at Neiman Marcus") you can address it in a way that won't tear others down. Go back to numbers 1 and 2 on this list. Everyone looks different. Your capabilities are limitless. Believe those things.

Understanding how girl-brain works can also help you feel less crappy when you are victimized by the whispering witches. When mean girls are mean to you, it's because they feel crappy and are trying to use you to make themselves feel better. It's not about your thighs, it's about their thighs. I'm not saying this will make it go away, but it might help you shake it off.

Be careful not to do the exact same thing as a knee-jerk reaction. "You think my hair looks gross? Look at YOUR hair! It looks like a bird's nest made of poo!" is not a good reaction. All you've done is allow someone to make you feel insecure, then allowed your insecurity to turn into nastiness. It's a vicious cycle.

I think this is where a lot of bullying comes from. Maybe if we all had a better understanding of how to cope with feelings of insecurity and how to build others up instead of tear them down, we would see a decrease in bullying.

P.S. Grown-ups, you do this too. Let's all work on it together.

4. When someone compliments you, just say "Thank you."

I don't know why this is so hard for some people. I've even been one of them. But really, just say "Thank you." Don't argue. Don't seek more compliments. Just say, "Thank you." Every time. Just do it. Reprogram your brain right now. Let's practice.

Complimenter: You sang so beautifully in the choir today!
Bad responses: Ugh, really? Yeah right, like you could hear my ONE voice in the whole choir! My voice is a mess, I've been sick for ages.
Good response: Thank you!

Complimenter: Your hair looks nice today.
Bad responses: It's a mess! Really? I'm trying to grow out my bangs. At least it's clean!
Good response: Thank you!

Complimenter: Congrats on making the team!
Bad responses: Not very many people tried out. It's only junior varsity. The uniforms are so ugly!
Good response: Thank you!

Do we get it yet? Every time. "Thank you." "Thank you." "Thank you!"


So if you feel like people just keep throwing raisins at your face, maybe these nuggets of wisdom will help you sort out what "be yourself" can really mean for you. Then, pick up the raisins and make ants on a log because hello? Delish.

The Deodorant Struggle (a real thing)

A few years ago, I was going to the store and I asked my younger brother, Zac, if he needed me to pick up anything for him.

"Yes, I need some deodorant." He says.

"OK. Do you have a brand you like?" I reply.

"No, just whatever."

"OK. Do you like the white solid or the clear liquid?"

"Neither. Clear solid, please"

"That doesn't exist."

"Sure it does."

My head exploded on the spot.

You see, in lady deodorant land, these are your choices:

1. White solid - they say it's "invisible" and won't mark up your black shirts, but this is lies lies lies.

2. Clear liquid - you have to get out your hair dryer to dry your armpits or you'll get a wet stain on your shirt... and don't we wear deodorant to avoid this kind of thing?

3. Roll on - this only works for the best smelling people on the planet. Everyone else needs a bit more than the 1-2 drops you get from a stick of Ban.

4. Spray on - no thanks

That's it. Those are your options. You have to decide whether you want white marks on your shirt or wet squishy underarms. Pick the least objectionable option. 

After my brother told me that there was such a thing as a "clear solid" in the boy deodorants, I raced to Target to see if this was actually real. To my shock and horror, it was. A few different brands (Dove, Degree, Old Spice) all offered a clear solid.

I took a few steps to my right to check the lady deodorants and see if I had somehow missed an innovation where clear solids were made for women.

They were not.

Even brands that provide deodorant for both sexes (Degree, Dove) would provide a clear solid option for men, but a selection of white solids and clear liquids for women.

Is the biology of our armpits really different enough between sexes to justify completely different options for this bathroom staple? I just googled "Why aren't there clear solid deodorants for women?" but apparently no one is angry enough about this because there were zero relevant results. We must begin this ruckus ourselves.

Back in that Target aisle, I bought two Dove Men+Care deodorants. One for Zac, and one for me.

I have used boy deodorant since. I sample my options and select the one that smelled the least masculine (I recommend "Clean Comfort" from Dove), but I still feet a bit cheated. Admittedly, it was convenient when I got married, because Austin and I can share a deodorant stick. However, if one of us was traveling without the other, we have a deficit.

Recently I've discovered Arm & Hammer Natural Essentials, which is a unisex clear solid that doesn't smell like man. But even as I write this post, the big drug store deodorant brands (I'm looking at you, Secret, Degree, and Dove) don't provide clear solids for women.

Join me in my outrage. Better yet, make a billion dollars by taking a pink or purple label and putting it on a stick of clear solid deodorant. And make it smell like something other than icebergs and oppression.

Mondays

Monday night at Harmonious Monks was worlds away from the Saturday night two days previous. Glitter and confetti were swept away, the dim lights were turned up brighter and several large tables in the middle of the restaurant were carried out to make room for a full, 20-piece, big jazz band.

Starting at 5pm, buses from senior centers would show up dropping off dozens of elderly patrons who wanted nothing more than to eat chicken fingers, slowly nurse a Yuengling dark ale, and listen to the songs they used to know when their hips and memories worked a little better. They would come in and take their seats - the same seats they took every week, and order their food - the same food they ordered every week.

My portion of this regular crowd was Jim and Homer. Table 21, every Monday. Jim would order a bacon cheeseburger (well done) with onion rings and a decaf coffee. Homer would order chicken fingers and fries with regular coffee. Jim would always tip me $8.00 and Homer would tip what he could. Homer had recently been widowed, so Jim would pick him up every Monday for jazz night to help him get out of his house and exercise his legs a bit, even if that exercise was just walking to the bathroom (a walk that could take quite a while).

At 7pm, a man named Mark would turn on a microphone and introduce the band. They called themselves "The TBA Big Band", which I think was an inside joke from long ago that no one asked about anymore. Then the music would begin.

And it was beautiful. The sound would fill the room in a way that our covers of Journey songs never could. The patrons would close their eyes and hear more than music, but an emotion seldom felt in the hustle and bustle of the 21st century. Many of the musicians were jazz professors from the University of North Florida and were considered some of the best in their field. One guy, a trombonist named David "Stumpy" Steinmeyer is said to be one of the best trombonists in the world, having played at Carnegie Hall.

The wait staff was considerably smaller on Mondays, consisting of just me, Ethan and Ria. At one point Ria called us the Three Musketeers, a nickname that stuck for a while. One of Ria's regulars, a man named Rodney, loved to talk my ear off about what he called "old timey rock 'n roll". Maybe because I nodded a lot when he was talking or maybe just because he was happy to have someone listen, he made me no fewer than 8 mix tapes of "old timey rock 'n roll". He came in one day, both hands full of cassette tapes waving above his head and a smile plastered on his face. I took them graciously and put them my car so I wouldn't leave them behind. For over a year now they've been sitting in my car, waiting for a tape player to appear in my life and help me understand what Rodney was raving about.

When the evening slowed down and the patrons were done with their dinners, their places were cleared and their coffees were refilled. I would sit at the bar and watch the slow sway of the audience. Sometimes a young couple would come to dance. There wasn't really a dance floor, but near the computer there were fewer tables and enough room to allow Diantha and Josh to spin and turn like professionals for delighted onlookers. She was a trained ballerina, he was just good at spinning and catching her. They would twist and untwist in elaborate and beautiful ways that complemented the music flawlessly. A few times Josh asked me to dance and I would try my best to keep up, but without Diantha's grace and experience, my efforts paled in comparison.

At nine o'clock, the music would end and the buses would come collect their respective participants. Ethan, Ria and I would get to cleaning and back-work, consisting mostly of wiping tables and covering unused lettuce. By nine thirty, I would collect my tips and clock out.

There was something magical about Monday nights at Harmonious Monks. The money was paltry compared to the profitable returns of Friday and Saturday nights, but something about exposing yourself to Gershwin, Whiteman and the people who love them can make an empty life full for an evening. I would leave with $18 in my pocket and a wealth of appreciation for big band jazz.

Back to Boys

Though much of my recreation time was spent at gay clubs and napping in my mom's lawn chairs, I did occasionally still think about dating and heterosexual men.

My ever-mysterious, bum-shaking coworker Jay was still charming as ever and a couple of guys from church were giving me sideways glances now and then. But I couldn't give them proper focus. I've always been the kind of girl who worried about boys a little too much, but at this time in my life there was so much going on in my head that there just wasn't room for extra thoughts about them. I was still coming to terms with the new person I was becoming (or discovering?), which was simultaneously amazing and horrifying.

Say what you want about Taylor Swift, but her description of being "happy, free, confused and lonely at the same time" from the hit song 22 is SPOT ON.

So my time spent with men was a pretty mixed bag. I hung out with Ethan a lot. Once or twice, I went over to Jay's apartment. On one such evening we ended up putting in a movie that he slept through. When it ended, I snuck out quietly. The sideways glances from boys in church turned into a couple of fun game nights with light snuggling. But overall I was without a plan, without a clue and without tons of prior experience to guide me.

Up until this point, I had only kissed two people. One was Alex (my high school dreamboat - there's a series of blog posts on here somewhere all about him) and the other was Jared, my first foray into girlfriend-hood. Jared and I dated for about 6 months before we both got confused and angsty and decided to not date anymore.

That's it. Just the two. When I would have late night gossip sessions with my roommates in college, the talk of the town wasn't how many men you'd slept with - for most of us that number was a big zero - but how many boys you'd kissed. We would giggle endlessly as one girl would brag of her 12, while others were still in the single digits. Sophomoric? Perhaps. Precious memories? Mos def.

I wasn't sitting pretty at 2 because I didn't want to kiss more boys. I certainly wouldn't have minded being a bit more lip-promiscuous, but I never had the sexual confidence that some of my peers flouted as they went about breaking hearts and collecting smooches. Their laundry list of ex-boyfriends always sounded so cosmopolitan. Plus there was the ever-beguiling concept of the NCMO. I never could quite figure out how this worked.

A NCMO (pronounced NICK-mo), for those of you who never attended BYU, is a Non-Committal-Make-Out. It means you're smooching someone you have no intention of dating. I first encountered this concept as a freshman.

Asia: You guys made out?
NCMO girl: Yeah, he just texted me and we met up.
Asia: So is he your boyfriend now?
NCMO girl: Ew, no.
Asia: ??????

Hearing stories like this perplexed me to no end. It was like trying to put a square peg into a round hole. How on earth could this be a thing?

Flash forward to the new, bar-singing, weight-losing, 22 year-old version of me. I wasn't suddenly a vixen with an appetite for carnality (I was still awkward, Mormon me), but I was more confident than I had ever been and was starting to realize more and more that I was at the helm of my romantic experiences.

This realization came to a head one night at the gay bar with Ethan. We had run into a boy that we both knew from high school. He was cute, he was fun, he was straight, and he was looking at me. We'll call him Robert. Apparently it's not crazy uncommon for straight people to hang out in gay bars (who was I to judge?). Plus he was bffs with the bartender or something. He asked me lots of insightful questions about what I'd been up to and had a nice, genuine smile in response to my fascinating responses.

The following week, he was there again. Our friendly chats began to turn into flirty chats as he offered to buy me a bottle of water (my beverage choices never got much more exotic than that). Then, as per the norm, a David Guetta song came on that Ethan and I could not resist. We headed to the tinsel-rimmed dance floor and shook our stuff. I motioned for Robert to join us.

The fun dancing turned into flirty dancing and before I knew it, Ethan was no longer in the picture and Robert and I were dancing pretty close (not dirty dancing close - I'm not a fan of the bump-and-grind). Then, a second later he was kissing me. I'll admit that it wasn't altogether a surprise, but it definitely wasn't anything I had experienced before. It was a NCMO. I was NCMO-ing in a gay bar. Take that, BYU gossip parties!

After that, Robert texted me once or twice, but we lived on such separate planets that I think we both knew the depth of our connection would have to subsist of a few minutes of smooching in a gay bar.

The next boy I would kiss after that would be my husband.

Looking back at all the gossip sessions where I would marvel at the girls with high numbers and wonder what was wrong with my lips makes me want to go back in time and give myself a hug.

"Don't worry." I would tell 19-year-old me. "It's perfectly alright not to kiss all the boys. Just wait. You'll have a NCMO. You'll kiss a girl. Then there'll be Austin. You don't need to kiss 100 frogs before you find your prince. Remember how Mom always says, 'You just need one?' Well, she's right, as usual."

SO Dramatic

Shortly after I was hired to work at Harmonious Monks, it was suggested that I learn "Mercy" by Duffy and continue singing "You Oughtta Know" by Alanis Morrissett. Those were my two contributions to the evening entertainment. Mercy went pretty well and became a staple of my repertoire. I sang it every Friday and Saturday night for about a year. You Oughtta Know was one of my favorite songs to sing, but was assigned to another singer after a couple of months.

Then tragedy struck. While rolling silverware one night before the big dinner rush, I saw on the TV in the corner that Whitney Houston had died. Everyone gathered around as we heard the sordid details of her final moments. Ethan was devastated.

When Dennis arrived, he announced that he wanted to add a song to the show in honor of her passing. He looked at me.

Dennis: We're going to add "I Will Always Love You" to the show and you're going to sing it.
Asia: Whaaaat...

I told him that long, ballad-y songs were not really my strong suit and - also - I'm not Whitney Houston so please don't make me embarrass myself trying. But Dennis believed in me and started getting the track ready.

I'll be honest, most nights it was passable. Some nights it was awful. And I can distinctly remember 2 or 3 nights when it was really good. Nights when my vocal cords were loose, strong and soulful. Below is a video that a good friend took of the beginning of it one night.

The crowd enjoyed it and always had nice things to say, but they always had nice things to say about everything. Drunk girls drinking out of phallic straws love everything and everyone.

In Summer of 2012 my aunt got sick. Aunt Jackie is my mom's closest sister and was, at times, like another parent in our household. She moved in after my dad died to help ease my mother's burdens. She helped with science projects, hairdos, and taught me about Janis Joplin and Pink Floyd. She loved when I sang and always made a comment about how it made her cry.

When I lived in Provo, she lived in Lehi and I would go to her apartment every Monday night to watch Hallmark movies and eat quesadillas. She thought it was so sad that I had stopped singing when I went to college. "There's no room for another singer out here." I would tell her. She would roll her eyes and tell me that I was the best singer in America. I would roll my eyes right back.

Right before I moved back to Jacksonville, she was having some pain but didn't want to go to a doctor because she didn't have insurance. A little while after I was settled in Jacksonville, Jackie went to a doctor and found out that she had lung cancer.

Her condition deteriorated quickly. She was in the hospital losing her strength and her energy; the same energy that lit up the room like a candle every time she laughed. The energy that had kept us all going during some difficult times in my childhood. Then one afternoon, she passed away.

It was awful. I got the call from my mom one night while I was at girls camp and I sobbed until I couldn't breathe. Major props to Sherry Warner for sitting with me for hours as I incoherently babbled about how I wished I had helped more with the quesadillas or taken her to go thrift store shopping more. It was odd - I know where we go after this life and I have no doubts that Jackie is taken care of by a loving God and other family that has passed on - but that day, for whatever reason, I just couldn't handle it.

Eventually I was able to breathe again and I joined the discussions about helping with her funeral. My mom asked me if I wanted to sing as part of the service. I knew that Jackie would have loved that, but I also knew that there was no way I would be able to get through a song without completely losing it. I volunteered instead to give a brief history of her life.

A week or so later, we held the funeral (memorial?) service. It went well. Lots of beautiful things were said and I felt the love of family and friends. So many people knew and loved her. The sadness was dissipating like clouds after a hurricane. The heft of the loss was growing light and we were able to smile and talk about things of less consequence like lunch and naps and work.

That night, I went to the restaurant to work my normal shift. I sang Mercy without a hitch and, other than the odd contemplative moment, was doing fine emotionally. But then Dennis called my name. It was time to sing I Will Always Love You.

I had sung it dozens of times. I knew all the words. I knew all the notes. And on this night, I knew that I just wouldn't be able to handle it. I took the stage and started the song, but about 30 seconds in, the words began to slur together and air was hard to find as I thought about Jackie.

In a super dramatic moment that one could only find in a Hilary Duff movie (Raise Your Voice, anyone?), I ran from the stage in sobs, leaving Dennis and the band bewildered and alone as the track continued to play.

I went and sat on the gross floor in the back near the walk-in freezer and tried to get myself together. It was extremely unprofessional and extremely embarrassing. The only thing that made it better was Ria kneeling beside me saying, "What do you need? I'll get it." and Ethan somewhere in the background of my mind saying, "I always thought that if someone was going to run off the stage dramatically, it would be me."

Another one of the servers jumped up to the stage and finished the song. It was a little odd to hear someone else sing it, but I was grateful that the show went on.

Once I was up again, I took a sharpie and a paper towel and wrote "Dennis, I am SO SORRY. This will NEVER happen again. -Asia." Then I walked up to the stage and set it on his keyboard so that he would see it.

Looking back, it's funny how dramatic that moment was and what little control I had over my emotions. I'm grateful for supportive coworkers and boss who let it roll of their backs like water off a duck. When the night ended (about 5 hours later), people were so exhausted (and some of them drunk) that they scarcely remembered my botched performance.

All of my songs after that night were better and, thankfully, tear-free. And I still sing. In one way or another, no matter where I am or what I'm doing, I try to always find a way to sing. Not because I'm the best singer in America, but because some people like it and, when I'm being honest with myself, I really like it too.