There are few sentences that can strike fear into the heart like “I’m not sure if you just said this because you were drunk, but…”
Reader, I enjoy a bit of a tipple. And sometimes, when I have been tippling a little too hard, I do and say things. From eating McNuggets out of my coat pocket on the 73 bus to inexplicably treating a group of my friends to a full rendition of Sweet Transvestite from the Rocky Horror Picture Show, it’s fair to say that I have experienced my share of post-night-out blushes.
Meaning that when my friend uttered the above, I was ever so slightly apprehensive. I braced myself.
“I don’t know if you just said this because you were drunk, but do you remember us deciding to join the office choir after Christmas?”
I did not remember. And I had absolutely, 100% just said it because I was drunk. I burst out laughing, took another sip of my wine.
“Let’s do it.”
Which is how I found myself spending my Tuesday lunchtimes crammed into the hottest room in the world with forty assorted colleagues, trying to read the words to an 80s ballad off a fuzzy projector. And friends, it is an absolute joy.
One of the greatest things I’ve found about being a grown up is that the concept of “cool” starts to lose its grip. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve never been cool. But when I was younger, the idea still seemed important. As a teen, I didn’t much care about fitting in with the popular crowd, but my purple eyeliner, green converse, one-of-the-lads schtick was just another version of “cool”.
When I started blogging in my early twenties, I was floored every time I realised that while people love quirky, weird little you on the internet, they don’t expect you to actually be like that in real life. I’d go along to events, sure that being cool didn’t matter anymore, only to be devastated when I was met by a wall of glossy-ponytailed sneers.
Jesus. Cold sweats. Anyway, where were we?
Oh yes, choirs. And coolness.
Being in a choir is not cool. It is just not cool. Bless Pitch Perfect and their little acappella hearts for trying but it is not cool. Because at the heart of the thing, almost every variation of cool is about not giving a shit. And being in a choir is inherently, unavoidably earnest. There is no way to appear nonchalant or aloof while singing “Only You”. It is a space entirely free of irony.
At first, this is debilitating. As soon as you enter that room, there is no way to pretend that you’re not keen. The terror that someone will notice that you’re in a choir because you want to be in a choir and not because you just, like, happened to be in this room, so whatever, is overwhelming.
Then an amazing thing happens. Once you realise that there is no point even attempting to appear cool, you’re free to completely lean in the other direction. The pressure goes.
You start to spontaneously click your fingers. Maybe you throw in a little shimmy every now and then. You high five people. You admit that “Only You” is an absolute stone cold banger. This is the least cool thing you’ve ever done, and it delights you. The whole idea of “cool” starts to loosen and rinse away.
We make happiness very complicated sometimes. In our hobbies, in our work, in food, in sex, in exercise, in our choice of books and clothes and words, we carry this bizarre idea that doing something just for the sheer, unadulterated joy of it is frivolous, undignified, maybe even a little embarrassing. We’re frozen with the worry of what other people will think of us. And there’s something blissfully freeing in knowing that people already think you’re ridiculous, so you’ve got nothing to lose by screaming the high notes of “Walking on Sunshine”.
And that, pals, is very cool.