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The song Celine Dion might sing if she won a literary award

For this one night can’t you find me beautiful?
Can you ignore my overbite, my slump, my frown?
See I’m writer — more at home in solitude and sweats
Than in spotlight, in Spanx, fancy gown. 

But you honored me with this award,
Said you valued my contributions,
So I’ll  work to conquer my natural shyness,
Perform expensive, unfamiliar ablutions. 

I’ll pluck, I’ll tweeze, I’ll squish, I’ll heave.
Probably cry like an Indian monsoon.
I’ll do it all, no matter how foreign
For if I be writer, I be loon. 

All I ask in return is two minutes’ indulgence
While through my acceptance speech I stumble.
What you view as unprofessional, backward and lame
Is me staying grounded and  humble. 

See, it’s not that my partner demands or cajoles
These thanks ’bout the meals and ’bout dishes;
Rather, that without him/her keeping chaos at bay
‘Twould be harder to follow heart’s wishes. 

So tomorrow I’ll beat the company gong,
Speak of deadlines, exude author mystique.
But tonight can it be about what I require,
Without feeling the sting of critique? 

If I meep, my peeps, if my nose runs, I fall,
Can I do so without fearing critique?