I got a gift package a couple of months ago, including a Michael Bublé CD. I wasn’t too thrilled, as big band, lounge singer, Sinatra-style music is not my favourite. But I played it and there are a couple of tracks that I like: “I’m Your Man” and “Me and Mrs Jones.” So I put it on in the car occasionally when there’s nothing much on the radio.
Heading out this evening with a couple of chores to do, I absent-mindedly put the CD on and listened to some of the other tracks. You know, sometimes, if you’re in the right mood … I started humming along.
At Track 2 (“It Had Better Be Tonight”), I started singing. The drums are beating, the trumpets are blaring, and suddenly I am singing at the top of my voice, tossing my head around, snapping my fingers, letting go of the steering wheel to clap my hands. Magically, my t-shirt and ill-fitting jeans become a crimson satin gown that clings where it touches. I am channelling Michelle Pfeiffer in The Fabulous Baker Boys. I am moving around in my seat, moving my shoulders, one at a time, in what I consider to be a particularly seductive way. (My daughters, who have once or twice seen a mild version of this, would find it terminally awful and embarrassing. We have not yet asked an impartial observer to rule.)
In the meantime, they are not with me. And Me and Mr Bublé, We got a thing going on.