It’s Not About the Shoes

“The beat goes on…”
Sonny and Cher

Of all the indignities we parents must endure for our adorable progeny, I believe that the loss of music might just be the worst of it.  I remember well the day the music died for me.  January 5th, 2002.  Sitka, Alaska.  On the surface of it, not an unusual day.  Horizontal sleet, sepia tinted air, partially frozen mud, grizzly bears scrounging through our trash.  Just another day in paradise.

The Ralph’s World CD playing on my 1995 Ford Explorer CD player had only been in there for three days, but my nerves were already frazzled by the off tune version of “Fly me to the Moon” that was insidiously carving a groove within my brain.  In an effort to replace that song with something normal, I made up a reason to flee our 400 ft² military quarters to go to the grocery store without my children (in a Sitka winter that’s about as good as it gets).  I must confess that I cared of only two things at that moment:  a double short mocha and a new, fresh out of the wrapper, Green Day CD.  Alas, it would be some time before I heard Green Day at any appreciable volume.  Ralph’s World had other plans for me.

I punched the eject button as soon as my children’s noses pressed against the living room glass could no longer be seen in the rear view mirror.  Horror of horrors.  The once dependable eject button on my CD player yielded no movement whatsoever.  Nothing. Nada.  Ralph’s World had taken up residence on my planet and refused to budge.

I don’t remember what happened immediately after that, but I do remember later that day sitting in a deserted local coffee shop, clutching a double short mocha and seeing clearly for the first time something that everyone else had known for months, if not years.  My cool factor was gone.  History.  Adios.   I drained the coffee cup, climbed into my salt encrusted SUV, and headed home.  It would be a long winter, indeed.

Ralph’s World stayed with us for many months after that.  When we shipped the Explorer from Alaska to New York, the Ralph’s World CD came with it.  We finally dumped that car when even my children could no longer bear the drivel dribbling out of the speakers.  I still get a smug smile when I think of that red monstrosity, CD included, getting crushed into a toaster sized cube.  (Again, not a violent person.)

For lo those many years I lived in a music free void, never seeing that the answer was right in front of my eyes.  Until one day, I started to run.  Running, contrary to what people will tell you, requires the purchase of many cool things.  Running shoes.  Running hats.  Water belts.  Reflective wrist bands with your ICE info in case you are hit by a truck while running.  Water bottles.  Running gels.  And IPODS.

Imagine, for a moment, my husband’s response if I calmly informed him that I needed 10 hours each week to sit around and listen to music on my headphones.  10 hours during which I could not be disturbed, and during which he would be entirely responsible for any family event/emergency/exigency that might arise.

Right.

Now imagine that I tell him that I am RUNNING for 10 hours a week, and during that time he is entirely responsible for any family event/emergency/exigency that might arise.  When I put that spin on it, listening to music is a sanctioned, even an encouraged, activity.  What would you do?

Right.  There’s a reason I run marathons, and not 5Ks.

I started with a shuffle, but eventually couldn’t fit enough songs on it to get through a long run.  So I upgraded.  And upgraded.  And upgraded again.  In no time at all I was back in the game.  I cannot even begin to calculate the amount of money I have spent padding my itunes library.  I have play lists for short fast runs, playlists for long slow runs, play lists for gym workouts.  Wall of sound guitar riffs are now a part of my daily existence.  Life rocks.

Running has become my middle-aged, suburban-life, socially-acceptable, form of public dancing.  In my opinion, running without music is just weird performance art.  Not that there is anything wrong with that.  Some of my best friends are weird performance artists.  I’m just saying.

Stay tuned for Part II, wherein I discover the power of beats-per-minute software.

150 days

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