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Listen to my theme song performed in three-part harmony instead of singing it softly to myself, like some loser who’s written her own theme song.
Drive in the H.O.V. lane without getting pulled over. I’d have four human women in my Subaru Forester instead of just me and a stack of library books, an overgrown heartleaf philodendron, and a mannequin that I stole from Kohl’s.
Let someone else navigate my car’s stupid touch screen, so I don’t almost swerve out of the H.O.V. lane while searching for Brandi Carlile’s “Broken Horses” on Spotify.
Cease to rely solely on my own judgment regarding the ripeness of a cantaloupe.
Win every argument on my terms—with my point repeated four times in an ascending scale, plus a jazzy little shimmy at the end.
Wear a sweater-vest without feeling like an awkward nineteen-eighties sitcom dad. One sweater-vest is pathetic, but four sweater-vests worn over sequinned miniskirts is a trend.
Never forget that I’m running low on Aqua Net.
Have enough arms for it to be true when I say, “Nah, I don’t need a cart, I’m just grabbing a few things” at Target.
Instantly increase my chances of getting pulled onstage at a Brandi Carlile concert because, come on, you know she’ll be curious about my backup singers.
Almost certainly inspire a Brandi Carlile song about a mysterious middle-aged woman who shows up at concerts with her own backup singers.
Suggest that a good name for that song might be—I don’t know, I’m just riffing here—“Traded a Stolen Mannequin for a Melody.”
Swiftly size up someone’s character and intentions based on whether my backup singers croon, “Ooooooooooh, now, who’s this?” in a major key or a minor key.
Have enough players to throw down a great game of Uno at literally any time.
Not care if Kevin tries to interrupt my big presentation at work, knowing that he’ll promptly be drowned out by a Motown-inflected cover of Taylor Swift’s “The Man” because I have backup singers now, you upstaging blowhard.
Two words: Olympic. Bobsledding.
Worry sometimes that my backup singers may be a well-tuned cry for help, but then they really nail the high chord when I scoff, “I’m absolutely fine, didn’t you listen to my theme song?” to my therapist.
Realize that there aren’t any great songs about bobsledding. I’d try to write one, but me and my backup singers will be zipping down the ice, too fast for people to hear us. Seems like an opportunity for some prominent contemporary songwriter, though—I’m just saying.
Make anyone approaching an elevator I’m in slow down, frown slightly, and say, “I’ll catch the next one.”
Always have a fallback Halloween costume for any parties I’m invited to. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse are even cooler when they can perform a sweet cover of George Michael’s “Father Figure.”
Have someone nearby to remind me to water my dying heartleaf philodendron.
Get instant feedback that, yes, “Water My Dying Heart(leaf philodendron)” would be a great name for a folk-rock song, maybe one with a mandolin track, in case that appeals to anybody. I’d even be willing to make it my new theme song, if that sweetens the deal. ♦
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