The One Thing You Can't See

Songs have been lodging themselves in my brain for the past several months--deeply and insistently, as if they are clues that might help me solve some cold case murder.  Sometimes it's something I heard that day and other times the song bubbles up from some deep swamp of audio subconscious.  The latter is what greeted me as I surfaced from sleep today.  Vanessa Williams' "Save The Best for Last" is a song I haven't heard in decades, although in 1992 it was hard to get away from, which, at the time, was fine by me because it was my very favorite song. 

I remember going on a field trip to the zoo with my fourth grade class and listening to some soft rock radio station on my Walkman near the mountain goats, just hoping for the song to come on.  When it did, I watched the goats with a bit more contemplative melancholy as my heart soared and ached with the bittersweet mystery of love.  I don't know what struck such a deep chord in my 12-year-old heart when I heard this song.  The lyrics certainly didn't resonate with anything I had yet come close to experiencing.  In a nutshell, the song is about a woman who is friends with a man she loves and she remains by the man's side in a friendship capacity as the man goes through doomed relationship after doomed relationship without realizing that his female friend is actually his soulmate.  It finally dawns on him and the two get together. In hindsight "It's not the way I hoped or how I planned, but somehow it's enough" sounds like a pretty pathetic, or at the very least, underwhelming way to describe achieving true love.  Which isn't to say the lyric is unrealistic. 

The song made me feel exceedingly grown-up; it possessed secrets of what was to come in adult relationships and I filed all the details away so I'd be emotionally prepared.  In fourth grade after hearing this song it seemed a foregone conclusion that I'd someday meet a boy who would be perfect for me, but he'd be blind to that fact, and so of course I'd have to patiently and agonizingly wait until he came to his senses and recognized that I was his dream girl.  Knowing this exact inevitable scenario was looming just a decade or so ahead lent me an air of wistful forbearance.  And it made me feel mature and wise beyond my years to relate so deeply to a sentiment which I believed pervaded the adult experience.  In this one small, crucial regard I was right on the money.  A great deal of adulthood is about negotiating the unexpected sting of nostalgia while navigating the not-so rosy-hued rigors of grown-up reality.  There's still magic and joy to be had, but it doesn't look or feel anything like you imagined it would.  And this can be difficult to reconcile.

In any case, this song had a special place in my silly heart.  And while I traipsed about playfully in my dramatic, imagined world of unrequited love that gave way to soulmates, I was still basically a kid who was full of excitement and hope about pretty much everything.  At that time I was also fresh off the exhilarating high of playing The Magic Mirror in a summer school enrichment program production of Snow White.  It wasn't the leading role, but I had pretty significant stage time and I felt I had really knocked my performance out of the park.  So when a teacher suggested to my mom that I pursue drama at a children's theater in the big city (well, Milwaukee), I jumped at it.  I don't recall the name of the musical I was auditioning for, but I distinctly remember browsing the aisles of a local music shop for sheet music.  I was responsible for choosing a song to perform and bringing the corresponding sheet music to the audition.  When I came across "Save the Best for Last" it was a no-brainer.  My main concern was that the pianist might struggle to play such a difficult song. 

As it turned out, that was not the problem.  The problem was that I had selected a ridiculously long and dramatic song that my 12-year-old voice was in no position to execute and that my 12-year-oldness in general had no business trying to sell.  The pianist raised her eyebrow when I handed her the music, but she played the piece flawlessly.  I thought I did a decent job, and had I not stuck around to watch the other auditions I might have left secure in that belief.  But the girl who followed me was extraordinary.  When it was announced that she'd be singing "Tomorrow" from "Annie" I remember thinking, "What a boring and obvious choice."  Then I watched her put on a ball cap and sit backwards on a chair in a way that just screamed "sass" and "confidence" as she belted out the tune in a way that put that original little orphan to shame.  I understood I didn't have an ounce of the offhand charisma that these other kids did, much less their formidable pipes.  I left the audition hoping that my sophisticated song choice would help me get a call-back.  It did not.  But I remember the kind and amused gleam in the director's eye when we briefly spoke after my song, and I believe he thoroughly enjoyed the quaver of emotion in my voice and wince of pain in my eyes as I did my best impression of an adult who'd finally found love after years of turmoil and neglect.

"Isn't the world a crazy place?" Indeed, Vanessa Williams. 

Although the song is the epitome of maudlin, I think she made a solid point with: "Sometimes the very thing you're looking for is the one thing you can't see."

I see now that I was just a sweet kid who had a lot to learn about myself and the world, and who had no idea that my litany of foibles and fumbles would in time add up to the adult I am today-- an adult who still has a lot to learn, but who has quite a few amusing stories to share about how I came to be me.