Vagus, Baby

This one weird trick is a treat

Housekeeping:

I wrote an op-ed for the NYT about why I hate watching TV right now. It’s getting me some interesting mail. But! Book dates continue to be a joy, with a sold-out reading at Another Story Bookshop in Toronto. Next week we’re on vacation, but then I’ll be in San Diego on 8/20 with a yummy happy hour, followed by more dates in in LA 8/27 (Silverlake Reading Club) and 9/3 (Chevalier’s, with

Jane Marie

!). New Orleans with

Jami Attenberg

is 9/12 (Octavia Books) and MS Book Fair is that weekend.

***

Hi pals,

When my husband and I first started dating, many years ago, we went to see LCD Soundsystem at the Hollywood Bowl, with two of my closest friends (one of whom is my brother). I wore sneakers, all the better to dance my face off. He had a great time but looked at me, thoughtful, the next day. You guys talk about dancing a lot, he said. I nodded—we do. I sort of thought you’d be better at it.

We unpacked this for a little while, and I guess after all that talk, he was expecting some studied finesse, instead of me just chaotically flinging my arms and legs around, but I ended up explaining that there’s absolutely no link between my skill level and how much I enjoy a thing. In fact, there might even be an inverse correlation. For example, here are some things I am excellent at— for sure top percentile globally—but hate doing: Being in charge, running meetings, sales of any kind, managing impossible people, office politics, snagging clients, navigating work conflicts.

Then there are the things I delight in, but am below-average-to-awful at: roller-skating, making playlists, board games, dancing, and of course, singing.

I love singing so much that a few days before I gave birth to my son, almost eleven years ago now, I dragged my friends to a morning session at Max Karaoke, where I dimmed the lights, so that no one felt self-conscious, and turned the song volume all the way up, with our mics set to just below. Drowning out our actual voices has been my longtime trick to get nervous singers to give over their whole bodies, so we can find our way into that euphoric crescendo, ya know? It was a morning to remember, and I went into labor later that week.

Then ten years passed, with two children and few organic opportunities to karaoke, and a couple of years ago I was beset by tummy troubles. Various sensitivities and intense pains had me scared to eat, and put me in bed for days at a time. The flare-ups were followed by somehow-worse dips into depression, because the tummy can’t make happy chemicals when it’s all jacked up, see.

A team of medical professionals helped me heal it step by step, and then the star of the show, a dietician, suggested I should start stimulating my vagus nerve, the nerve that connects the brain to the gut, as well as the heart and lungs. This would improve not just gut motility, but also my depression symptoms, she claimed. I was ready to do anything, but unsure where to start. Like how?, I asked. Tickle the back of your throat with a popsicle stick until you gag, she said. Or try a cold plunge. Nope, both awful. Or you could sing, loudly, she said, and my ears perked up. that, I can do. It has to be VERY loud, she warned. I assured her that would not be a problem, and hurried back to my car/studio.

Now, my voice is fine. It’s kind of thin and high-pitched, tends toward shrill, and there’s a whole middle range I cannot access. But when I’m singing, I’m as elated as a kid too high on a swing. Remember how the chain goes slack sometimes, and you don’t know if you’ll head back down to earth or fly away? That’s the ticket.

As I’ve mentioned above, many songs compel me to dance. Some songs I appreciate as art. And the third category, songs that compel me to sing along, are their own shortlist, sourced via trial and error. Many (most?) are songs I would never listen to just sitting around (Sundown, by Gordon Lightfoot?? Avril Lavigne? One Direction!) but when I hear their opening chords I start to feel a tremor in my belly that goes all the way up through my diaphragm and into my throat. They often require tricky key changes or uncommon time—I love a full-body singing workout. Usually, I know most of the words. But even if I don’t, a loud la-la-la’ing, or a humming, works almost as well.

Now that singing is an official necessity for my health, I try to do it as often as I can - in the car, but also at reasonably-timed social events. My husband and I went to a karaoke birthday party recently. It’s not high on his list of preferred activities, but on the way there I reminded him I have been dropped into his life to change him (and vice-versa), and one of my goals is to get him to enjoy things he’s not the absolute best in the world at (he is the absolute best in the world at many things). We sang an enthusiastic version of Falling Slowly from Once - his lovely rumbly voice a perfect counter to mine, and created a singalong playlist for the whole way back.

I keep adding to the playlist, and man does it make me happy. I had to drive four hours from my parents’ to Toronto earlier this week, and pulled it up. I was in hour three of the drive, belting Possession by Sarah McLachlan (naturally - 🇨🇦) before I realized I was almost there. The song ended, and I turned up the volume to just the tiniest bit louder than I can sing, and then went for it again, with every inch of my lungs. Anyway, that’s my recommendation for you this week, if you are driving and have some time to kill. If it doesn’t make you measurably happier to do so, there’s always gagging on a popsicle stick.

xoxo