Since I was the invisible tall girl (believe me, it is quite possible to be both tall and invisible—just stand near the back) in my high school choir class, I have long-harbored a secret desire to be Idina Menzel. I may have blended seamlessly into the other sopranos and never had the guts to audition for show choir, but that doesn’t mean I never dreamt of standing under a spotlight, belting an Andrew Lloyd Webber tune at the top of my lungs.

This week, I challenged myself to muster up enough gumption to finally do something I’ve secretly always wanted to try—audition to be a vocalist. On a small scale, of course, or I certainly would never have the courage to go. My church held open auditions for vocalists, and I couldn’t think of a more forgiving place to have my first audition.

Conditions:

  • I must practice in front of more than my showerhead and hairbrush.
  • I cannot fake H1N1 or the Ebola virus to get out of the audition.
  • No running off the stage mid-audition.

Day 1:

First things first—it’s time to sign up for my audition. I email the girl in charge of the audition list to tell her I’m interested in trying out to be a vocalist. She responds with my audition time and a list of songs I can choose from. I’m also to prepare a second song of my choosing that I can sing acapella or from a recording.

I glance over the song list, and thankfully, they’re all songs I know. They’re also all sung by men. Hmm. I, in case you missed it, am not a man. Nor do I have a baritone singing voice. My soprano is mezzo at best, so the first challenge of today is figuring out which song I can sing in the higher octave that won’t sound like a screeching cat. Because no one likes a screeching cat. Not even Jesus.

Day 3:

I’ve made my song selections, and even convinced myself that this could be fun. The next step is practice. Practice, practice, practice. My usual audience of shampoo bottles and loofa are no longer a suitable crowd, as per my conditions, so I move to the next choice in spectators: my cat.

He’s the perfect audience. Fatter than Garfield, rude, and for the most part, stationary. I practice a casual introduction: “Hi, my name is Hailey Uhler and I’m the next American Idol because… (laugh) I’m just kidding.” My cat blinks at me. He’s right. As if I’ll be able to make a crappy joke, let alone remember my own name once I’m standing before the judges. I’m not fooling anyone.

I serenade him with my acapella piece, and when I finish, his only response is to turn his ears back as if I just drew my fingernails against a chalkboard. How encouraging.

Day 5:

It’s D-day. My audition is at 2:10 p.m. I’m to wait in the café and fill out a form, then I will be brought into the sanctuary.

My knee jiggles incessantly while I wait. What did I get myself into? There are several other things I would rather be doing right now. Many of them involve near-death scenarios.

All too soon, I’m escorted into the sanctuary. I’m introduced to the panel of judges (there are eight of them—sure, no pressure), and then asked if I’m ready to harmonize on one of my songs. My stomach drops. Harmonize? No one told me anything about harmonizing.

I smile and say yes automatically, forgetting that this is not a job interview where I can eventually learn to do what they ask, but real-life where in mere seconds I will have to harmonize on a song I barely have the guts to sing the melody to.

I stand before a microphone. My stomach is doing cartwheels. The accompanist begins playing my first song, and I join in. “Whoa, whoa whoa,” he stops playing. “Slow down. Waaaaay down.” I flush with embarrassment and start over. “Even slower.” He stops again, then starts and sings with me. Oh, my gosh. I want to disappear.

We come to the second verse, where I’m supposed to harmonize with the accompanist as he sings the melody. This is fine. I can do this. I’ve done it before.

Except it’s not. I can’t find the note. I make noises resembling a moose mating call and blush furiously. I want to sprint off the stage. Oh, my gosh.

The accompanist stops playing. “Okay. Go ahead and do the other song you’ve prepared.” I’m absolutely mortified. Why did this ever seem like a good idea? I loathe myself right now. With nothing but the words “honest reporting” encouraging me to go on, I sing two verses of my second song, and my audition is over.

“That was great. Thanks for coming in,” the accompanist says. He says something about when they’ll make their callbacks, but all I’m considering is how long it would take me to find a shovel and a rock large enough to hide under for the rest of time. I somehow find a smile, manage to say thanks and most importantly, not run screaming from the building.

Day 7:

I’m driving to meet a friend when the phone call comes in. I don’t recognize the number, and let it go to voicemail. Listening to the message, I realize it’s the accompanist from the audition. He wants me to call him back so we can talk about my audition. Come on. Isn’t it less insulting to tell me I suck through voice mail? It’s much less embarrassing for me, anyway.

I return his call a few hours later, and, as expected, I’m let down easy. He was extremely nice, considering my audition should probably be on the American Idol bloopers reel. Needless to say, I won’t be singing on a stage anytime soon, but I’m glad I forced myself to at least try.

Now I can rest easy, knowing I’m meant to be a writer, not a singer. My shower will continue to host free concerts of the show tunes I’m obsessed with. My pride may have been bruised in the process, but there’s a lot to be said for a bit of public humiliation. It keeps you humble. And at least now I don’t have to wonder if I was born for a life in the spotlight. I’m happy to be a snarky journalist with an appreciation for good music, even if the discovery meant that I considered faking my own death for the longest 10 minutes of my life.

Humiliation builds character.

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