Oops, I did it again... and again

On those lazy days of summer, the last thing you want to do is sit at home. You want to go outside and enjoy the gentle breezes, clear blue skies, and the warmth of the sun. The promise of golden-brown skin is also an incentive. That is, unless, you’re me.

Unfortunately, as much as I love going outside, hot weather doesn't agree with me. Getting all sweaty with no discernable outcome is not my thing. So, doing what any cooliphile would do, I drive. No discrimination against distance. Jump in my car, roll down the windows, throw on my shades, and let billions of dollars of engineering R&D take its course.

While the scenery passes by in a colourful blur, and the wind flutters through your hair, you feel as if something is missing. Music. A good summer song. Something upbeat and uptempo. Pop. After searching through the preset stations, I find the perfect selection: Oops, I did it again. The volume is cranked.

From her first, guttural groans, I know I’m going to be in for a good time. Max Martin and those Swedes know what they’re doing when they craft pop fluff. Aah. While zooming through traffic, and music blasting though the speakers, the next three minutes is all about me and Britney.

I think I did it again…

Singing, while driving, is a symbiotic relationship. Take one away, and the other doesn’t function to its full capacity. And when I sing, I sing loud. From the glass-shattering power ballad, to the gospel-tinged R&B groove, my voice emulates the musical inflections of every singer and song. If I ever have to drive my mother around town, she always sarcastically comments, Why don’t you become a singer? You're always singing. What she doesn’t realize is that I love to sing, but I am not a singer.

But it doesn’t mean that I’m serious…

And, of course, there are dance moves. As limited as my position is in the car, my fingers point, my arms flail, my torso swings, my head swivels, and my ass jiggles. An amazing feat of cheography while remaining contrained in a moving vehicle.

‘Cause to lose all of my senses, that is just so typically me…

After finishing the first and second chorus, I come to the stupid bridge of dialogue where she’s speaking to the astronaut; easily the most inane part of the song. What is even more inane is that my voice drops two octaves when repeating his lines, while tilting my head to the side and making cow-eyes when doing her part in that soft, southern drawl.

All aboard...
Britney, before you go, there’s something I want you to have.
Oh, it’s beautiful. But wait a minute, isn’t this…?
Yeah, yes it is.
But I thought the old lady dropped it into the ocean in the end.
Well, baby, I went down and got it for you.
Oh, you shouldn’t have…

The car stops at an intersection. Red lights. Right at this point, another driver pulls up to me. The car is full of teenagers. Loud teenagers. The multiple voices of overlapping conversations are inaudible. Then, suddenly, they all stop talking.

Oops, I did it again to your heart…

Since I am looking straight ahead at the oncoming traffic, I don’t realize what captures their attention. My sixth sense notices something is off. While singing, I turn my head to the left. They are looking at me. Their mouths are agape. They resemble a bunch of slack-jawed yokels. I see scraggly hair, blemishes on oily skin, a couple of mercury fillings, and a touch of gingivitis on a couple of them. And, don’t get me started on the clothes.

Embarrassment could be a way to handle the situation: my face flushes, I slouch in my seat, and shut the fuck up. But, I don’t. Doing what any entertainer would do, I smile, tilt my head to the side, and wave. And, I continue singing.

Oops, you think that I’m sent from above…

The light turns green and I proceed. As I look back in my rearview mirror, I see they’re still at the intersection. What? Haven’t they ever seen a skinny, white boy singing to Britney Spears while driving? Idiots.

I played with your heart …

For the next minute, I enjoy the rest of the song. I continue singing with no fear of reprieve, or the next intersection. Although part of me cringes to think about how good of a singer I think I am, and if my tonal qualities lapse into pitchy territory (not bloody likely), another part of me doesn’t care. There is a total disregard of the obvious. And, this makes me feel a little naughty.

I’m not that innocent.