On my 55th birthday I was taken to a local Thai restaurant by two dear friends, all three of us middle aged recently divorced women. We downed a couple of exotic cocktails with paper umbrellas and were in rare form by the time we gathered our coats and purses and headed for the door.

But the evening, as it turned out, wasn’t over.  Adjacent to the restaurant was a bar and in front was a free-standing sign announcing it was Curryaoke Night! Of course we opened the bar door and went in.

It was dark inside, wood paneled with small round tables all facing the brightly lit stage. We sat down near the back and ordered beers.  A peroxided blonde woman was singing a Patsy Cline tune with a raucous crowd shouting out Crazy whenever the chorus rolled around. She ended to loud applause and the MC called out “Who do we have next?” An older woman sitting next to us, wearing a turquoise shirt with silver buttons, jeans and cowboy boots, leaned over and said, in a gravelly smoker’s voice, “What’s it gonna be girls?”  That was all the encouragement we needed.  Cathy, Helen and I filed up on to the stage. We stood there for a long minute, blinded by the light, clueless as to what the hell we were going to sing, until finally Helen whispered, “It’s your birthday, what song do you want?” and without any thought at all I said, “Desperado”.  The MC cued up the song, we took a deep group breath and launched in. “Desperado, why don’t you come to your senses….”  We should have come to our senses right there. While we were ahead. Another verse and the crowd was getting restless. Nothing was going well –– our voices were all at different pitches, my fellow singers were struggling to read the lyrics, but we valiantly staggered on. Finally it was over and, heads down, we shuffled our way back to our table to a smattering of applause. Our table mate, grinning from ear to ear, hollered out over the noise of the crowd, “That was the worst goddamn thing I have ever heard.”  We were already feeling bad, ready to slink out of the bar when she went on, “So what are you girls going to sing next?” With that, the four of us burst out laughing. 

The next go round, heads held high, we filed back up to the stage. This time Helen picked the song, and we belted out “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” and at the end we bowed as the audience gave us an enthusiastic round of applause.

It's been twenty-three years since that epic night; another birthday is coming up soon. One of our trio has died and the two of us left are limping along with one thing after another going wrong in our bodies and minds.  But “what the hell”, I can hear our raucous Curryoake cowgirl friend call out, “What are you two girls gonna sing next?”

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