My boss is really fun. She’s full of creative ideas and always has chocolate kicking around her office. There is unflattering speculation regarding her level of productivity. But I have few doubts.
But this Karaoke machine in her office–sober karaoke is therapeutic. Possibly cathartic.
The trick is, I think, turning off your self-censor and feeling okay about public buffoonery, especially if the place you work is unkind to your gender and makes you feel rather demoralized but strong.
In fact, it is just this delicate recipe of conflict that allows me to feel as though Karaoke in the boss’ office is something that I will grow to use as therapy. There is something so freeing and mood-elevating about belting terrible early-90s soul, doing both the boy and girl part badly, in the midst of would-be-business.
I faced the wall and the skinny black window and watched the screen and thought about nothing but me, in the moment, being anything that even resembles competent when it comes to the vocals. Belting, swaying, dancing. My throat got raw.
It was exhilarating like driving too fast crooning loudly to Green Day.
The non-present-just-a-wall-away audience empowered my noise. I let it hang in my throat. It felt rich like stout. Perhaps for the same reason marginalized populations assert their presence with noise, or ruckus, or passive-aggression; I did not apologize for my warbling. I did not even feel shame (once I got started). I just sang. Into the mic with the echo-box built in. With the volume way too high.