I've been listening to a lot of Johnny Cash lately, which comes up in unexpected ways. One is that I'll find myself a couple of bars into "If I were a carpenter..." while in the shower in the early morning. Then I realize what I'm doing: "did anyone hear?" as I look guiltily around the tiles and shower curtain (as if the absence of a visible audience will prove that no one did hear.) Of course, since it's early morning and I haven't yet wrested my iron self-control away from Mr. Sandman, these thoughts are also said out loud (remember, this is only about twenty minutes since I've realized that yes, I am the kind of thing that can do something about that alarm clock). And for about the same reason, the entire scenario repeats at least once more before the shower is over and I can escape downstairs (and away from my soon-to-be-sainted roommate who is usually attempting some of tired nature's sweet restorer).
Of course, once downstairs the urge to sing does not recur. There are probably deep-seated psychological reasons for this (and physiological reasons, since I'm not the kind of thing that can sing and eat breakfast simultaneously). Also interesting from a psychoanalyst's point of view is why some songs are so very popular for ablutionary singing ("Oh Bury Me Not" is a perennial favorite) without overlapping the playlist ("Hurt" and "The Mercy Seat.") "The Man Who Couldn't Cry" shows up reliably on both, but I think that's because I really like the bit where he locates his dog before he rejoins his arm.
I'm not going to ask my roommate if she's heard me. Once when I was thirteen, a lady who was staying with us told me I had a lovely voice and that she'd particularly enjoyed the rousing version of "Dixie" and it was years before I could shower when company was at the house.
