Fascinated by her assertiveness, I watch the two of them. I have to crane my neck to catch sight of them, and soon, too soon, they disappear into the crowd. Squinting my eyes, wishing I’d changed my dirty contact lenses, I search for them.
In a matter of seconds, though, it’s not my poor eyesight but Sandra who prevents me from locating them. She stands in front of me with a huge-ass smile on her face. “What song did you decide on?”
Giving a cursory glance at my choices, the perfect one is the first I see. “‘Total Eclipse of the Heart,’” I blurt out and point excitedly at the same time. This song I know, and know it all too well.
Sandra is my neighbor and is more than aware of all my woes. That sad smile she gives me borders on pity.
Not wanting to be that girl anymore, the one who got her heart broken, I grab Sandra’s arm before she heads toward the karaoke booth. “You know what, forget that song. Why don’t you pick one that represents the change coming in my life?”
At that her eyes light up.
Minutes later I’m being dragged up onstage by my friends and coworkers, and according to the screen, I’m about to sing a group rendition of “New York, New York.”
Okay, I can do this.
I know this song. Not as well as “Total Eclipse of the Heart,” but at least I know it. Besides, how hard can it be? I’ve sung it a million times—although admittedly mostly when I’ve been drunk.
Then again, I have had a lot to drink tonight.
The pressure is on. The eight of us gather around the microphone. The audience lights dim and a spotlight shines on us. I kind of feel like a star. No, I feel like Frank Sinatra himself without those penetrating blue eyes. But when the karaoke jockey asks, “Are you ready?” suddenly, I’m petrified. There is no way on God’s green earth I am going to be able to hit the high notes.
The music starts. It’s too late to back out. First, it’s just the piano, but then the trumpet and clarinet join in. It’s odd, but the familiarity of the sound eases my nerves. When the lyrics flash in front of me, all my worries are gone and I don’t care anymore.
I let all of my hang-ups go and sing.
This, what I’m doing right now, is a glimpse into the old me. Somewhere between college and the real world, I lost that fun-loving girl, and I hope I can find her again.
Don’t worry. I have a plan to do just that. Not only am I leaving the city I have loved for so long, but I’m also going to be moving far, far away, with no idea if I will ever be coming back.
It’s how I hope to find myself.
My friends squeeze my shoulders, and we continue to sing the lyrics. Unexpectedly, they alter the words, and instead of talking about making it in New York, they tell the story of making it anywhere—in my case, California.
More than moved by this kind gesture, I gulp down the sorrow and move with them in a way that doesn’t match the tempo at all. It doesn’t matter, though, because they’re right: “If I can make it here, I can make it anywhere.”
God, I hope that’s true.
There’s a pause in the chorus and the piano melody quiets us all down. We’re now standing in a straight line onstage and swaying back and forth.
Breathing for the first time in three months, regret isn’t a word I am going to allow myself to say . . . out loud, anyway.
Yes, I admit it—I have a type A personality, which makes me hard to get to know and even harder to be friends with. Crossing my t’s and dotting my i’s will always be important to me. As is staying on a schedule. Making lists. And being organized. But none of that means I’m boring.
The sting of the word still hurts.
Sebastian was wrong. Is wrong—I am not boring, and even though he is out of my life I am going to prove him wrong. No, scratch that—I am going to prove to myself that I can live my life wild and free, because truth be told, I may not be boring, but I am bored.
I need a change.
To find myself.
The chorus starts up again and although we sing about coming to New York, we all do so knowing that I’m leaving.
I still can’t believe I’m doing it.
When my best friend, Maggie, suggested on the phone, “Why don’t you quit your job and move out here with me?” I nearly broke out in hives.
I thought, why would I do that?
My life was settled. I had a good job, an apartment, and a fiancé. Then I remembered that my boss was an ass, my apartment was a sublet, and my fiancé, well, he wasn’t mine anymore.
Once I let the idea of moving sink in, I thought, why not make a new start? At twenty-four and a half, I can afford to make a change. I’ll get a new job. Give myself a year. Who knows, maybe even find myself.