Stage Fright

It started with a forwarded e-mail from my brother. A group of alumni from my high school were trying to put together a reunion choir--32 years of a capella singers, directed one more time by their revered Mr. C. "Let's do it!" I shot back at my brother. Because he loves me, he agreed. But he wasn't totally on board with the groundswell. A few folks had taken this one and run with it big time: Auditions would be required, or so we thought. High standards would be maintained. Monthly rehearsals would be scheduled in various cities over the next 16 months. Participants would be expected to memorize 25 challenging, mostly sacred, choral pieces, harking back to the days when public schools could get away with that sort of thing.

Bubba ixnayed auditions, said he would be happy to sing the alma mater at the end of the program but would otherwise warm a seat in the audience. Closing in on 60, he didn't feel the need to get anybody's stamp of approval, and frankly, the hoopla seemed out-sized. I agreed. I had loved that choir; we were the best of our kind in town (not that we had much competition). I had loved the conductor. But I had moved on. Besides, I still heard the voice of my late mother, who sat through multiple concerts of roughly the same repertoire for six years, dutifully applauding each of her three children in succession. After those days were long gone, she said to me, "If I never hear 'Little Drummer Boy' again, it will be too soon."

Despite this low hum of cynicism, I caught the bug that the locals were spreading through e-mail messages, a You Tube video, and an elaborate web site. I missed singing; here was my big chance--as the organizers dramatically referred to it, "One Last Time." Feeling a little too close to the grave, I heard an urgency in those words. I could do worse than to go out singing, I thought. Still, I was wracked with stage fright.

Of course. I knew what that was: sensible, mature caution, the warning light that comes on when one is invited to jump off a precipice. I would have to learn all the music by myself; the rehearsals were hundreds of air miles away. I might embarrass myself up there. I didn't want to disappoint or aggravate the venerable old director or anybody standing near enough to hear my bad intonation or garbled words.

But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that I'd never been afraid of public performance. I love the stage! Likewise, I know that I have been blessed with relative pitch, a good musical memory, and a heart that swells to certain combinations of sounds. No, this stage fright had nothing to do with the spotlight.

The stage that scared me the most was the one at which I found myself chronologically, the one that has claimed me and my tender psyche. I'm having trouble stepping up to the plate of the last third of my life.

I've discovered that people my age fall into two categories: My husband and many of my friends have chosen to fight aging with every fiber of their being. They exercise religiously, eat all the right foods, embrace cosmetic procedures, and keep up with every technological advance and gadget. They refuse to "act their age" and are determined to stay as young as they can for as long as they can. There's a kind of bold daring in the way they live.

Then there are people like me. Aging has always seemed like a merciful way to lay down the burdens of my youth--the oppressive demands of beauty-seeking, the competitive sizing up of one another, the striving that is necessary to climb the vocational ladder. I internalized these high-maintenance values early and do battle with them daily. What I call graceful aging is probably just a desire to let go gently, but decisively, of all that work.

Being called into action for this choral performance has created a conflict between my stubborn attachment to an "old" self-concept and the unreserved joy that I feel every time I sing this beautiful music. An energetic girl is yelling in the old-timer's ear, "I'm baaaaaack!" She won't shut up.

In fact, she has had the audacity of late to claim what she says is her rightful place in this aging body. She shoves her way into my brain and says, "Outta here, Granny! This is MY space." "Granny" is having a hard time standing her ground. She's scared but starting, slowly, to enjoy the teenager in her head. The old girl is growing fond of the young one. She wonders what it would be like to stand down and give the youngster pride of place. Will the oldster look foolish? God knows, she doesn't want to look foolish.

Yet the happy child inside keeps posing questions. "Who gets to decide your age?" "Are you afraid of me, or are you afraid of all that stupid stuff you thought you had to do to 'stay' young?" "Can't you have an old face and a young heart?" The 60 year old doesn't have a lot of answers, but she is starting to wonder if the child has a point.

Who knows what the outcome of this territorial tussle will be? In the meantime, I think I'll keep on singing, with apologies to Oscar Hammerstein II.

Whenever I feel afraid, I hold my head erect

And whistle a happy tune, so no one will suspect I'm afraid.

While quivering in my shoes, I strike a careless pose

And whistle a happy tune, so no one ever knows I'm afraid.

The result of this deception is very strange to tell

For when I fool the demons I fear, I fool myself as well.

I whistle a happy tune, and every single time,

The happiness in the tune convinces me that I'm not afraid.

Make believe you're young, and the trick will take you far.

You may be as young as you make believe you are.