All that she wants is to buy a CD without judgment

“Don’t turn around, ‘cause you’re gonna see my heart breakin’. Don’t turn around, I don’t want you seeing me cry. Just walk away, it’s tearing me apart that you’re leaving, but I’m letting you go.” 

Ace of Base probably doesn’t generate a lot of emotional recall for many people. It’s not an album of soulful ballads lamenting heartbreak or loss. The electronic music feels pretty devoid of actual instruments and the voices ring like a precursor to auto-tuning. But The Sign, released in 1993, was a self-imposed, elusive object for me. The pop songs were catchy, but as a moody youngster determined to get into Guinness for longest held scowl was unable to leave the store with such cheerful crap music.

When my dad bought a portable CD player, he took me to The Wall at the Echelon Mall to buy a CD. I could only buy 1, so my decision took a long time. My dad was ready in about 10 minutes: Iron Butterfly. But I was torn. This was my first CD purchase, so it had to be a good one: Ace of Base or the soundtrack to West Side Story. You can see my dilemma – that my taste in music vacillated between terrible pop and carefully crafted musicals.

From that moment on, I would look for the title at ever music store – The Wall, Tunes, Sam Goody – kicking myself for not letting my dad buy me that CD. As part of the A section, my CD browsing, conveniently, would begin with picking Ace of Base out of the rack, looking at the front to confirm that it was the right CD, then pretending to scroll the back of the case for the songlist I knew by heart:

1 All that she wants

2 Don’t turn around

3 Young and proud

4 The sign

5 Living in danger

6 Dancer in a daydream

7 Wheel of fortune

8 Waiting for magic (Total remix 7”)

9 Happy nation

10 Voluez-vou danser

11 My mind (Mindless mix)

12 All that she wants (Banghra version)

Fearful that someone cooler than I could ever be was watching me hold this plastic case of gross pop music, I would replace it in the rack and move onto a cooler section, perhaps pretending to care about Nirvana albums. All the while, as I bounced alphabetically through the racks flushed with embarrassment for my uncool music taste, I would be doing my unpatented CD math:

cost per song = total cost of album/number of songs

This simple formula should provide the justification for an album purchase, a formula I still use to this day, actually. However, The Sign posed confused the simplicity of the equation:

1. The radio played the songs all the time, so why invest in the CD when I could just hear the song for free?

2. My friend had a copy of the CD, so I could always listen to hers, if I could muster the courage to admit to wanting to listen to it.

3. Stephanie’s band on Full House covered The Sign, which, frankly, just put me off the music all together.

Yet, even in my later ironic but still scowling phase, I remained resistant to buying the disc. Probably because I didn’t ironically enjoy Ace of Base; I wasn’t laughing at the dancey beats or awkward lyrics (ie, “all that she wants is another baby”; what?) like I did with Lindsay Lohan or Ashlee Simpson. Perhaps it is my love of Abba that makes me love Ace of Base.

So when I was at my local Goodwill last week and saw Ace of Base, The Sign, priced at $.99, I knew I couldn’t keep up the sham. I needed to hear that slightly off-key vocal spewing uncomfortable French lyrics to raver music. To round out my uncool music purchase that day, I added Madonna’s Immaculate Collection and Evanescence’s Fallen.

Clearly, I’ve lost my bid for longest held frown.

Polite Observations

Privilege — n. a right or benefit that is given to some people and not to others. 

Right — n. something that a person is or should be morally or legally allowed to have, get, or do. 

***

In the ladies room, during class break, I am disgusted by the state of the bathroom.

Me: Aren't we in this together? I mean, what is going on in here? It's disgusting.

Classmate: Yeah, I blame the undergrads.

Me: But still, seems pretty gross to treat a bathroom like this, when you know everyone is going to use it.

Overheard in class last night.

Student: Their parents need to teach them manners.

Paul, driving on 676 to drop me off at school. We’re talking about driving and pedestrians who choose to walk in the street rather than on the provided sidewalk.

Paul: People need to learn manners. Their parents should have taught them how to be polite.

Me: Did your parents teach you manners?

Paul: Yeah.

Me: Did you walk in the street when you were younger?

Paul: Well, yeah. But I was living dangerously.

Me: Living dangerously? By walking in the street?

Paul: Yeah.

Me: Okay, well that’s dumb. But that’s not the point. Your parents taught you not to do that. To walk on the sidewalk. To be courteous.

Paul: Yeah.

Me: So then, why did you walk in the street?

Paul: Because, I was living dangerously.

Me: No. It’s because you felt you had a right to. We were all taught manners and how to be polite and what courtesy is. But what parents aren’t teaching their kids about is Privilege.

Paul: [tries to talk, but owing to years of experience dealing with me, knows better than to really stop me]

Me: No, listen. We all do it. This is MY street. I have the RIGHT to walk here. MY town. MY lane. MY school. MY right of way. ME ME ME ME MY MY MY MY. We know what manners are, but we alllllll choose not to use them because we feel we have a right NOT to use them.

***

As Mrs White, my driver’s ed teacher said: “Driving is a privilege, not a right.”

And as Graham Dashwood (from “The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel”) said, “People here [in India] see life as a privilege, not a right.” 

And as Jesus said, "Love your neighbor as yourself."

And as Paul Robeson said, “This is our home and this is our country. Beneath its soil lie bones of our fathers [and mothers]; for it some of them fought, bled, and died. Here we were born and here we will stay.”

And as Herman Melville said, “We cannot live only for ourselves. A thousand fibers connect us with our fellow-[citizens]; and along those fibers, as sympathetic threads, our actions run as causes, and come back to us as effects.”

An Apology to My Past: or, How I'm Rocking My Present

Recently, I’ve been thinking about my past. Maybe it’s because I feel grateful for my present (Dare I use the H word?). Maybe it’s because I’m surprised by how many years I wasted angry (At what? Everything. Nothing. Who knows.). Or the number times I scoffed at older folks who told me I’d mellow out someday (Miss Patricia,  boppin’ at Wawa).  Or that I wonder about the people in my past who could be holding on to my mistakes, unforgivable (I’m sorry. I truly am. Won’t you please forgive me?). And don’t forget the molehills I turned into mountains (more like mountain ranges).

My recovery has been slow. Bit by bit. Timid, at first, fearful that the damage was irreparable. But with each successful step, I grow more confident that I'm on the right path.

Over the past year, I’ve done work to recover my academic reputation. Paying that overdue library fine. Reviewing my transcripts. Culminating in re-enrolling in a graduate program I left incomplete. It feels good to put my life right-side-up on paper. Of course, this is only the beginning of that up-ending. I have some more work to do. But I can see that I’ve improved. I just hope my improvement is visible to others.

Last year, I read, “War of Art.” My one regret: that I didn’t read it 10 years ago. What I saw as failure, what I felt as unmatched disaster, was just fucking life.

“We know that if we embrace our ideals, we must prove worthy of them. And that scares the hell out of us.”

For years, I piddled away at college courses, expecting to walk out into the world with a career handed to me. Because that’s why we went to school: to get a good job. Instead of relishing those collegiate moments, I rushed through classes anticipating the end, the result, the grade. Check off that box! Then, in those jobs, I found myself restless and bored, even confined. I fought back with sass and attitude. And maybe a tiny bit of bitchiness. This is not why I went to school! But it’s what people are telling me I should be going. Right? Right?!?! I thought hopping from job to job would soothe my anxiety: the newness was always appealing. But I couldn’t run forever. I had to face the truth: I would never be happy in a “job.” Now, I am facing my demons: attending graduate school and putting my brain—my thoughts! my ideas! my fucking soul!—up for grading and public scrutiny. I am terrified. But I am the most excited scared I can remember being, like, ever.

“Casting yourself as a victim is the antithesis of doing your work. Don’t do it. If you’re doing it, stop.”

Seriously. Just fucking stop.

I see how easily I settled into the victim role. And I am ashamed of not only what I did to myself, but how I made others feel. Expecting that they treat me as a victim, too. When, really, I was only a victim of my head. Granted, I can see that I truly should have sought professional help; that deep of a depression is dangerous and to say I “made it through alive” is not a badge of honor I want to wear. But, mental illness aside, during my Dark Days—Ok, Years—I received a lot of good advice, a lot of support, and a lot of opportunities. None can I point to and say: Yup, that helped me. Of course it didn’t help me! Because I hadn’t read “War of Art” yet—Ha, no. Because I was just trying to keep my brain from killing me, to survive. I wasn’t ready for good advice or experiential wisdom. I wasn’t ready to stop being a victim.

I was a fool and I am sorry for that.

“Defeating Resistance is like giving birth. It seems absolutely impossible until you remember that women have been pulling it off successfully, with support and without, for fifty million years.”

Take that, Victim Jess. Perspective makes me feel anything I want is possible. Not because I have everything I need to do it correctly the first time, but because others have done it already. In fact, it’s part of the reason I decided to go back to school. To understand that a challenge—from losing weight to finishing school to mending a broken heart—is surmountable soothes my anxious mind and takes the victim excuse off my table.

Now that you’ve read more about me that you probably ever wanted to, I share with you items that helped me through my bull shit:

Website: Life Hacker

Life is always easier with quality hacks. 

Book: How I Stayed Alive When My Brain Was Trying to Kill Me

Book: War of Art

Book: The Nerdist Way

Book: Fuck It.

Music: The Civil Wars

I've only recently started listening to The Civil Wars. But good lord they have grabbed my soul.

Music: Kelly Clarkson: Breakaway

When I was sad and victimy, a friend told me that I should buy some Kelly Clarkson and just rock out in my apartment. He was right. And I did. And you know what, I felt pretty good. This also put me on a crap-pop binge of Ashlee Simpson, Lindsay Lohan, and Avril Lavigne. But quite frankly, nothing is feels good as screaming "Since U Been Gone" to your ex-boyfriend who can't hear you because he's moved on.

Music: Barenaked Ladies: any song

My favorite band. Even now, when I'm feeling blue, I just sing along to any BNL song and I can't help but grin. Silliness is sometimes the best remedy for inexplicable sadness.

TV: Sex and the City

The same person who told me to buy Kelly Clarkson also told me to watch Sex and the City, because I was single, I suppose. Whatever the motive, buying the DVD seasons became a treat for me. Each paycheck (ie, every other week), I would go to Best Buy and buy one season. Being surrounded by happily coupled people was fucking sad. Especially when those happily coupled people were witness to my heartbreak on a daily basis. So embarrassing. So watching single ladies be awesome felt really, really good. 

Dog: Berger, my corgi. Who I can probably credit most with keeping me alive during those Dark Years. Thoughts like "But what would happen to Berger?" kept me more grounded that you'd think.

I feel like all that training in failure and heartbreak made me better able to handle the real failure and heartbreak I've experienced in this part of my life. Like losing my big brother. Or watching parents grow older. Or dealing with my father-in-law having a massive stroke. Or taking the leap to work at home. There is no room for victimhood here. This is the shit that counts. And I hope I'm making it count.