Naked and Unashamed

Yesterday I went into the office for a while. Normally when I'm working before 8, after 5, and on Saturdays, I've got my iPhone blasting music into headphones that I wear. It blocks outside distractions and keeps me amused.  But I didn't feel like wearing headphones, and my co-worker sitting next to me was happy to have the music going, even if she didn't like everything I was playing.  So I put it on shuffle, set it down, and went to work.

But I had to stop every so often and fast forward over a song. Hasa Diga Eebowai? Yeah, no. One Angry Dwarf and 200 Solemn Faces? Sorry (by Nerfherder, and it's awesomely funny). Detachable Penis? And so on.  Now I didn't mind fast fowarding over songs I thought might be offensive to her.

But it did get me to thinking.  The music I listen to is such an intimate expression of my personality that I'd almost find it easier to take off my clothes and stand naked in front of someone than to hand them my iPod/iPhone and let them go through my music. I would hesitate even to let Joe go through my music, and I've been married to him for almost 22 years.  I think the only person in my life with whom I could share all of my music is my sister. That's it.

It's so revealing. It tells things about me that I can admit to myself only in the wee small hours of the morning, when I'm willing to face my loneliness and admit my fears.

I have extremely eclectic tastes when it comes to music. There are few genres that I won't have at least a song or two from, even if I wouldn't list them as genres I like (for the record, overall not a fan of modern country or rap, although there are definitely exceptions). Jazz? Zydeco? World music? Samba? Ballads? Hair metal? Broadway? Pop? Classic rock? New Wave? Punk? Alternative? Blues? Yes, please.

There are the songs that make me happy when I'm mad at my husband.  Wherever He Ain't, sung by the incomparable Bernadette Peters from the musical Mack and Mabel. Could I Leave You? Please Don't Scream. Even the only Taylor Swift song I own meets this need. (I think it's called Mean).

There are songs that make me get up and dance. There are songs that sing to the blues I so often carry around with me. Songs that make me feel there is hope. Songs that make me feel I have no hope. Songs of joy, songs of pain, songs of sorrow.

It's the humanity in each song that sings to me.

And I'll tell you songs that I think you might like, and I may force you to listen to a song or CD that moves me, but don't be offended if I don't just hand over my iPod and tell you to have at it. Because I won't.

It's no secret that my marriage is less than happy, although I love my husband dearly and wouldn't hurt him for anything. But in those 3 a.m. wakeful bouts, I dream about true love and happiness. For me, the greatest sign of perfect trust would be giving someone my music and letting him listen to it and know who I am. I'm afraid that will never happen.