Dear RV Neighbor:

I know you’re weirded out about the way I sing out loud for no apparent reason, so to set your mind at ease about whether I’m a dangerous lunatic, I want to give you an explanation. Here it is: I got bored with being me.

It wasn’t an issue when I was young, but as the years went by it became irritating: always, always, being me, acting the way I do, thinking the things I do. Other people act differently, do different things, obviously there’s more than one way to run a human body. It seemed like I was missing out on a lot, and life is too short to wait around, so I started looking for a way out of me-jail.

Well, it wasn’t a long search. I’ve always liked music, so that was both the starting point and, so far, anyway, the ending point. Singing doesn’t just let me stop being me, it gives my body to the song. For three or four minutes, maybe five, max, I lend my body to a different person. You remember the old days when cars had bench seats? It’s like I’m behind the wheel with the engine running, and when a song approaches I wave it over, it gets in the driver door, and I scoot over and let it drive. Let it take me on a tour. It’s surprising how much fun the trip is when you no longer have to drive.

I don’t want to get further into metaphors, and it’s not necessary to get into a lot of details because here’s the bottom line: when I sing, it’s like sex. To the best of my recollection. About the sex. You get into your 70s, you know what I’m sayin’.

You think about an orgasm, you aren’t being yourself or anybody else at that moment. You’re pure pleasure, not part of this world at all. When I’m singing, it’s not that intense, which is a good thing because nobody has the strength to maintain what happens in an orgasm for more than a few seconds. But it’s in that same direction, and it’s not just a few seconds; it goes on for as long I’m singing. Or playing the harmonica or the recorder or drum or whatever other musical thing has come along. (I don’t play the guitar because I have an injured finger: can’t do the frets. In case you were wondering.)

So ask yourself this: if you could slowly blow the doors off like that, wouldn’t you? Maybe not, but as for me, I’ve got a limited amount of time left, and when my time comes I want to look back on happy, not sad. If you do have something like that, well, good for you, and I don’t even know why you’ve bothered to read this far, but thank you.

Oh, and if my singing bugs you, just let me know and I’ll take it inside and close the windows, no problem.

Paul