Wednesday Warm Fuzzy - on Thursday

TWO - FOUR - SIX - OH - ONE!!!!

(Excuse me. I had a little Broadway to belt out before starting this one.)

The Setup:
It's happened again. I was sitting on the floor near a box of videotapes my mom has been deliberating about for more than a year, when out of the corner of my eye I spied a stylized French flag held by the waifish little girl. My eyes locked in, my mind started singing and my hand reached to grab the best. video. ever.

The Warm Fuzzy:
Les Miserables

The History:

To my benefit, my parents taught us to value experiences over stuff. So, by the time I was in the sixth grade, I had had more "experiences" than most of my peers. I had traveled fairly extensively. I was an accomplished pianist. I was a snow skiing Floridian. And by the sixth grade, I had seen at least 4 Broadway shows - before we had our own theater, and before Rosie and Regis made Broadway cool again. I was already a showtune geek - able to sing the entire book of Big River (among others) from opening act to curtain call.

But in sixth grade, my mom started coaching me on the story of the noble Jean Valjean and the relentless Javert, knowing that if I was familiar with the tale I would enjoy the show exponentially more. She was right, of course.

Sitting in that audience is my first memory of being absolutely mesmerized. I can remember what I was wearing as I was involuntarily swept away in Victor Hugo's tale of redemption and family. Lost in the silky voices and booming vocals of this cast of people who had more talent than I realized existed. (I'm even having trouble focusing at the moment because the video is on and I can't stop singing). I learned that night to long for the stage, to fill my life with this music. I learned to appreciate the power of music and story, and I became, shall we say...obsessed?, with musical theater.

Over time, I would see Les Mis almost a dozen times, along with anything else that passed through where I was living, or that was playing in a town I was visiting. I've road-tripped for thousands of miles singing show tunes at the top of my voice - alone or with friends or family, it didn't matter - and the memories of sharing the roles with my car cast mates bring a smile to my face every time. I remember giggling over lyrics sung wrong - our own versions were always so much better. I even entertained thoughts of getting a job as a pit orchestra keyboardist, as it was obvious early on that God didn't bless me with a voice worthy of the Broadway stage.

But that doesn't matter in the car. Or in the shower. Or in the family room, right now.
One Day More...