In the church my family attended growing up, there was a bathroom with voluptuous acoustics. So voluptuous in fact, that one could not possibly contain one's inner music while taking care of business. It was during a particularly hushful moment during Sunday service when I, as a six year old, learned of my misjudgement in choosing the interior of that particular chamber to release myself as a singer.
After a few choruses of Jingle Bells upon the toilet, I knew the need to return to the sanctuary lest my lingering encourage mom's wrath. When seated beside her in the pew however, she was not frowning, but rather attempting to bury some uncontrollable hilarity. She leaned over to me. "Jingle all the way."
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