The question
I have been seeing this woman, and we've been getting along very well. But one night recently we happened to stumble into a karaoke bar. She's a good singer, but when she got on stage she totally choked. It was embarrassing, humiliating.
I told her she was fine, but now I can't look at her the same way. Every time we start fooling around, I hear her singing Goodbye Yellow Brick Road in that little quavering voice, and I lose all desire. She kept asking me what was wrong, so finally I told her the truth. She freaked out and screamed at me that she couldn't believe I'm so shallow. Now she's always upset and ashamed. It's almost like we're going to have to break up over this. How can we get back on track?
The answer
I have never understood the karaoke impulse. Isn't life embarrassing enough just walking around, interacting with people, getting and trying to keep a job or career, and taking our relatives to fancy restaurants?
Do we really need to court further humiliation by hopping on stage in front of a large audience and engaging in an activity we know is not our forte, with numerous drinks under our belts?
Something similar happened to someone I know recently. I won't say who, but it's someone quite close to me and with whom I've had several children.
We too stumbled into a karaoke bar by mistake. "Oooh, karaoke!" she squealed with girlish glee when she saw the setup. "What fun!" And she signed up to sing Daydream Believer by The Monkees.
The thing was, when she signed up the place was almost empty. But it filled quickly and by the time she assumed the stage the bar was packed to the rafters. And several seasoned karaoke veterans had brought the house down with near-professional renditions of crowd favourites.
My poor baby, she started in a low register and couldn't snap out of it. She sounded like Josh Hartnett up there: "Daydream believer and a homecoming que-ee-een ..."
Even that wouldn't have been so bad if, as one friend observed, she had "powered through it, had fun with it, maybe executed a couple of karate kicks."
Instead, as she realized things weren't turning out as she hoped (she's actually a good singer and was fully expecting to wow the crowd), her voice got smaller and quieter, "kind of like," as the same ultra-candid friend observed, "a child's toy running out of batteries."
Afterward she tried to stick around for a couple of drinks, but went into a shame spiral and we had to go home. I spent the rest of the weekend in reassurance and esteem-bolstering mode.
The thing is, I never loved her more than when she was on that stage. Poor thing, she was suffering, and if I could have changed places with her, I would have (fortunately such substitutions are frowned upon in karaoke circles).
And that's how it has to be if your relationship is to have legs. It has to feel like you and her against the world. But here you found yourself, or at least the part of you operating the wires and levers of your libido, siding with the world against her. And that could spell trouble down the road.
Now, I try not to be one of these advice columnists (and they almost all seem to be like this) who say "dump him or her" at the slightest sign of difficulty. If you're an adult you stay in someone's corner through thick and thin, no matter what happens, through failure, disaster, public humiliation, arrest, trial and conviction.
It's called loyalty, and if you decide to go that route, I have a couple of ideas.
One: Suppress the whole memory. It's not that hard to do. I've suppressed weeks, months, whole summers of my life. If my memory probes stray too close to these zones, it's like: yee-owch, don't touch that area. Too tender.
Maybe it'll help if you try to reimagine the whole experience. Picture her in a sheath-like dress, in some smoky Parisian nightclub, singing a smouldering rendition of Total Eclipse of the Heart, hitting every note with effortless ease, all the male patrons swooning for her.
Or you could help her get back on the horse. Buy her singing lessons, then take her to less-known karaoke venues on the outskirts of town, turn her into a seasoned karaoke type who makes a triumphal return to the scene of early shame - like Eminem in 8 Mile.
But I have to say: The long-term prognosis for your relationship does not look good. If an activity as peripheral as karaoke can derail your sex drive, you may have deeper problems. I mean, if I'm attracted to a woman, I could have sex with her even if the house were on fire. I'd be like: "Come on, honey, it's just a little fire, I'm sure it won't spread too quickly - and the firemen should be here any minute! Here ... just let me ... unhook this ..."
If you do choose to leave, be decisive. Abrupt, even. Don't be one of these guys who hang around talking about it for months. It may be painful at first, but it'll be a clean wound and heal quickly.
No need to be coy, Roy. Just hop on a bus, Gus. Because there must be (little karate kick) 50 ways to leave your lover.
David Eddie is a screenwriter and the author of Chump Change and Housebroken: Confessions of a Stay-at-Home Dad.
I've made a huge mistake
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Best wishes,
Albert
P.S. Am I the only one to find this article hilarious?




























