As previously blogged about, in New York City we are accustomed to living on top on one another, privy to everyone else's business and pretending not to care. I know what time my neighbors leave for work and I know what time their kids get out of school. I know that there is a gay couple somewhere in the vicinity who frequently argue about not being able to fully come out of the closet. I know that Greg who lives upstairs likes to play the banjo, stomp his feet and yodel (or whatever that God-awful noise is emitting from his throat), as part of practice for his "bluegrass" band. Those are the times when I turn up my stereo, curl into the fetal position and whimper. There's also a beautifully-voiced opera singer who lives in the apartment adjacent to my bathroom window. Those are the peaceful Sunday mornings when I stumble into the shower, bleary-eyed from the debaucheries of the night prior, and find my sanity again just listening to her angelic chorus interplaying with the rushing water around me.
Then, in moments of inspiration, delusion, or emotional overflow, I belt it out in the shower. As you may or may not know, I'm a closeted, frustrated, emotional and angst-y rockstar. Karaoke is my best friend, when I have a mic in my grasp, a song in my heart and a captive audience of friends and strangers alike. The shower is my practice studio. So, a few weeks ago while rehearsing my rendition of Mariah Carey's "Vision of Love," a thought occurred to me...
If I can hear my neighbors, surely they can hear me!
Um, duh. Cringe.
So now the weather has gotten colder, much, much colder, and I've had to shut the bathroom window for the winter. So no more Sunday opera for the season. I wonder if they are missing me too.
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