Last night I spent way too long trying to make a playlist on Spotify, which is sort of like the 2011 version of a mixtape.
After an hour, I only had about five songs, four of which I had to Google because the only songs I could actually remember were cheesy dance songs and kids music.
May I never be judged soley on my music taste because even I admit that it's embarrassing.
Perhaps it's because I spent the better part of my life knee deep in music - playing it, analyzing it, even writing it.
In fact, as a music therapist, I often asked my patients to create their life playlist.
[Think about that one for a minute. Heavy shit].
You can tell a lot about someone by their music.
And so, after I had kids and found myself shedding that skin for a new one, I needed a break from all that. And so I chose what I liked based on whether I could dance to it. Or if it would shut my kids up.
Both of which are not the greatest indicators of "quality" music.
But the wonderful thing about music is that "quality" is indeed relative. Even if some fancypants music critic says something is crap, if it speaks to you - makes you laugh, cry, or shake your ass like there's no tomorrow - then it's worthwhile.
Yes, even Britney Spears. (My go-to Karaoke Artist, by the way).
I try to tell myself the same thing about my television choices. I'm not quite sure where Real Housewives would fall on the music scale.
Oh right. Milli Vanilli.
As I painfully tried to construct this playlist without putting one bad 90's dance song on it, I realized that I also left my music behind because of its deep emotional connection to my life.
The pounding house beats and silly kids songs are light and easy. On my head. And on my heart. As good as gifts when you're dealing with the heavy challenges of 24-hour caregiving.
We all have our bastard iPod song. The one that we blast in our car when no one's in it.
But then there are the songs. Those songs. They speak volumes, the memories made with them still vivid in your mind.
Like a treasure box kept under a floor board.
Open at your own risk.