A few years ago, I was driving, The Kid accompanying in the back seat. The weather was nice, the windows were down, and he was singing.
It didn’t matter that the windows were down. It didn’t matter we were stopped at a light and the people next to us could hear him. He was just singing.
I admired him for that and decided that I would try to not care, either.
Because really … who cares what some random stranger(s) in the car(s) next to you thinks?
(The answer is, apparently, most of us.)
Sometimes I can turn it off—the caring what people think—sometimes I can’t.
Because it doesn’t matter what they think. Whether they like my music, like my singing, like my voice. I’m not singing to please an audience when I’m driving—I’m singing because I love to sing and it makes me happy.
A couple of weeks ago, I was at a birthday party, and the playlist was 80s music. I knew almost all of the songs and could sing at least the chorus if not the whole song.
And so I did.
Not if I was talking to someone, of course—that’s rude—but waiting for my turn in a dice game? Waiting for a slice of cake? Helping clean up? Why not?
And you know what? It felt pretty good just to sing along and not care. Sometimes people joined me, sometimes not.
Another piece of that? Whenever I’m out and about and see a person who is happy singing or dancing and not caring that people can see or hear them, it makes me happy, too.
Good music on in the grocery store? I’m singing. (Doesn’t happen that often, but more than never, now that I’m more often the target demographic.)
Do it! What do you have to lose?