You’re Bringing Out the Elvis in Me.

Country music is not my first choice but once in a while a woman needs/wants/ thrives on the verses of Shania and Faith Hill. And as for me, I have to say when I ponder what it might like to be to have a partner where our blood beats with the same passion and build a universe we can call our religion, I think of Faith Hill and that guy she’s married.

But then I wonder. She wrote this song What’s In It For Me? And I should listen to this song more often. Instead I plummet into the stream of Breathe and It will Be Me. Isn’t that the way that’s love supposed to be? Maybe. But I can breathe and I know how precious the feeling is of the hearts and breathes in tandem. My babies sleeping on my chest, my own chest pressed against yours. . . same beat, bellies warming. So how do you find love after all?

This is the dichotomy of country music. I was reared in the role of the family enabler. Guilty as charged but, of course, not guilty. At this point you wouldn’t think I would confuse it with other things but maybe things swirl so it’s not all this or that; it so rarely is black or white. My needs are in the mix too. I know it. I can help you. Whoever decided that that concept is right anyway? How come an enabler can enable while people can really only help themselves and you can't help someone who doesn't want help?

I can do anything to which I set my mind. So here is my mind set: whether country music sets your world on fire or not (and it is not my first touch on the juke box), I want what I imagine Faith Hill has and I can find it, nurture it, curl it into my arms every night even if I find it like a piece of coal. If the conditions are right, we’ll have gems.

But just as often, I hear Cheryl Wheeler sing Almost and there is no doubt that I’ve been found out. I counter it with Faith Hill’s You’re Bringing out the Elvis in Me. It’s a good disguise.