It’s hard to believe it’s been a month since Christmas passed.

The tree has been dragged to the curb, the twinkle lights are knotted once more, decorations have been stuffed back into their totes and we’ve stopped hearing the Carpenter’s grumbling about where to put all the (insert expletives) totes in his garage. Yet one sweet holiday sound still lingers joyfully in my mind: the sweet crooning voice of Bing Crosby.

That’s right, I’m a smitten kitten for Bing Crosby. I am not in the least embarrassed to admit it. That baritone voice is like a hot knife through a block of cold butter that gets smeared on a crusty slice of soft Italian bread (I miss you, gluten. I truly do). It’s delicious. I mean, Bing Crosby is delicious. That is to say, Bing brings me as much joy as bread and butter once did, only without the bloat and harsh calories.

I’m not explaining this correctly. Look, you know I love music more than any other art form. I’m an all-genre music fan (minus death metal because, honestly, lighten up).  Lately, I even dropped my previously held guard against country music and now sing songs about beer, whiskey and doing shots at the honky tonk – and I don’t even drink beer (thanks again, gluten). I don’t do shots and my last visit to a honky tonk didn’t end well (because I tried the aforementioned items).

Little known fact about me: I love music from long before my time. Big Band music, the legendary crooners, and the elegance of female voices like Ella Fitzgerald and Billie Holiday.

I have innocently walked into delicate situations when I used the phrase, “I love to swing,” and forgot the word “dance” to round out that sentence. Swing dance. Not a swinger. Not the same thing. You can see how that would be awkward. Focus now, we’re talking about Bing Crosby, not swingers, and yet, when he invites me to swing on the stars, I consider it.

It was during my favourite holiday movie, White Christmas, that my beloved leading man swooped into my life once more with his sparkling eyes, silly dance moves and clever banter. Always a gentleman, he is not my idea of handsome, but he proves you don’t have to be. Bing’s voice makes me swoon. It is just so smooth. He’d open the car door for me, unlike the Carpenter who says “hop in and watch the coffee cups.” Sigh.

Maybe it’s an age thing. Timeless music. Classic cars. Old books. Black and white films. And hey, I do prefer older men, and have lately come to appreciate the allure of dead ones (The Carpenter will love that joke). I was born in the wrong time. But thanks to online music catalogues, I can slip back in time whenever I want. Since the holidays, I’ve let Bing swing into my playlist amongst the classic rock, folk, latest hits and, of course, the Rolling Stones. I answer emails, post to social media, write and edit away while Bing says I’m a beautiful dreamer. He’s right. Swoon.

You’re judging me. I can feel it. You’re thinking, “Kelly, seriously? Bing Crosby?” Yes, Bing Crosby. He’s been singing to me the whole time I wrote this and I am already way cooler because of it.

Music is my muse, in every genre and generation. Tune out and tune in. Grateful.

WriteOut of Her Mind