Nearly Caught Naked
You may not know this, but a library workroom can get a little noisy sometimes. With meeting room noise leaking in through the walls and the friendly chatter of employees, it can get difficult to concentrate. Since much of my job requires focus, attention to details, and clear thought, I've developed strategies to deal with the occasional hubub. Counting in another language can help me keep from being derailed by random numbers in nearby conversations, provided the language is different from those likely to crop up in the area. Systematic double-checks and lists can help to make sure nothing gets missed. Music is a great tool in that effort, too. When things are getting hectic and the noise level is rising, I can find an oasis in my headphones. I still have to keep one ear partially free in order to catch a ringing phone or answer questions for coworkers, but a little music can effectively cancel most of the distractions and allow me to do my work more efficiently.
A few days ago, I had retreated into my musical coccoon and was speeding through my morning tasks. I was listening to an early CD by Jason Mraz, one of the variety of albums I keep handy in my car. Anticipating a generally noisy meeting, I had brought it in with me that morning. Though I enjoy a range of music, and my selections will vary with my mood, there are a few artists I seem to be in the mood for more often than most. Jason Mraz is one of them. In addition to being (from all indications) a generally nice guy who's trying to do good things in the world, he can sing. The music manages to be complex and simple at the same time. It's thoughtful, but easily so, and it's always uplifting, even when it's not a particularly "happy" song. For this reason, he makes his way into my CD player often enough that the songs are all familiar. Part of my spirit can be totally absorbed in the music and dancing along while my main focus is elsewhere.
So it was that morning, me working on interlibrary loan requests while the music filled my less conscious mind. And then, as so often when I'm working around the house or driving alone, I started to sing along. I stopped myself right away, before anyone noticed, but it was a close call. I was embarrassed. My heart was beating fast. As I continued my work, though, I started to wonder why the idea of getting caught singing along caused that response.
It's no secret that people enjoy music. Some even enjoy it at work. Most of us will sing along at home or in the car, but when it comes to places like the grocery store or the office, while you may see people bobbing their heads or tapping their toes, you rarely hear them burst into song. There's a social restraint, especially in the context of a workplace. This is more than stage fright. I've sung in front of people before. Somehow, this is different.
The conclusion I reached is that singing along, opening up in this unconscious way, is like being naked. In that moment of singing without thought, there's no filter on your soul. It's a very personal thing, and observers can see an unarmoured part of you. You are exposed. It doesn't matter if you have a good voice or not. It doesn't matter if you know all the words or if you're making it up as you go along. You're just out there being free, and that's an awkward place to be among people you have to work with. Most of us have no problem being naked in the shower. Some of us might even streak in front of strangers. How many of us would walk into the office in our birthday suits, though? There seems to be a middle ground between the safety of home and the anonymity of strangers that makes exposure weird. The same seems to apply to the vulnerability of singing along.
There's courage involved in risking a song at work. However automatic the urge to join in the music, most of us stop ourselves before going that far. I've known a few who might briefly risk it, and I do admire their bravery. Performers, certainly, can't be afraid to be "on the spot" in front of others. Though most of those others have already declared their interest, the performer is still opening up on stage. One of my coworkers whistles frequently, which is almost the same concept as singing along. She usually brightens the mood around her. Since I'm usually pretty quiet and serious at work, however, I might inspire more shock than if I actually showed up naked. So, I'll save my singing for the car or the shower or other quiet moments alone. But I am very happy that there are others who don't mind a little exposure, particularly those who make the music that inspires me to sing along.
A few days ago, I had retreated into my musical coccoon and was speeding through my morning tasks. I was listening to an early CD by Jason Mraz, one of the variety of albums I keep handy in my car. Anticipating a generally noisy meeting, I had brought it in with me that morning. Though I enjoy a range of music, and my selections will vary with my mood, there are a few artists I seem to be in the mood for more often than most. Jason Mraz is one of them. In addition to being (from all indications) a generally nice guy who's trying to do good things in the world, he can sing. The music manages to be complex and simple at the same time. It's thoughtful, but easily so, and it's always uplifting, even when it's not a particularly "happy" song. For this reason, he makes his way into my CD player often enough that the songs are all familiar. Part of my spirit can be totally absorbed in the music and dancing along while my main focus is elsewhere.
So it was that morning, me working on interlibrary loan requests while the music filled my less conscious mind. And then, as so often when I'm working around the house or driving alone, I started to sing along. I stopped myself right away, before anyone noticed, but it was a close call. I was embarrassed. My heart was beating fast. As I continued my work, though, I started to wonder why the idea of getting caught singing along caused that response.
It's no secret that people enjoy music. Some even enjoy it at work. Most of us will sing along at home or in the car, but when it comes to places like the grocery store or the office, while you may see people bobbing their heads or tapping their toes, you rarely hear them burst into song. There's a social restraint, especially in the context of a workplace. This is more than stage fright. I've sung in front of people before. Somehow, this is different.
The conclusion I reached is that singing along, opening up in this unconscious way, is like being naked. In that moment of singing without thought, there's no filter on your soul. It's a very personal thing, and observers can see an unarmoured part of you. You are exposed. It doesn't matter if you have a good voice or not. It doesn't matter if you know all the words or if you're making it up as you go along. You're just out there being free, and that's an awkward place to be among people you have to work with. Most of us have no problem being naked in the shower. Some of us might even streak in front of strangers. How many of us would walk into the office in our birthday suits, though? There seems to be a middle ground between the safety of home and the anonymity of strangers that makes exposure weird. The same seems to apply to the vulnerability of singing along.
There's courage involved in risking a song at work. However automatic the urge to join in the music, most of us stop ourselves before going that far. I've known a few who might briefly risk it, and I do admire their bravery. Performers, certainly, can't be afraid to be "on the spot" in front of others. Though most of those others have already declared their interest, the performer is still opening up on stage. One of my coworkers whistles frequently, which is almost the same concept as singing along. She usually brightens the mood around her. Since I'm usually pretty quiet and serious at work, however, I might inspire more shock than if I actually showed up naked. So, I'll save my singing for the car or the shower or other quiet moments alone. But I am very happy that there are others who don't mind a little exposure, particularly those who make the music that inspires me to sing along.
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