It never happened.
So, this is a story about what happened after that and also about, well, all the CDs I’ve loved before….
As my husband and I approached the sound of drums being made to sound like the intro to a Kenny Chesney song (he thinks he’s, like, Jamaican or something), I quickly became enamored. “Awww, listen to that, Chris!”, I said to my really, really, really new husband. He thought it sounded nice, but he wasn’t swaying to the music while holding the peace sign up in the air. (Well, I wasn’t either, but I totally should have. I would’ve looked all mellow and island-ish.)
After I came out of my steel drum coma, I spotted the card table set off to the side of the drummers. They were selling CDs.
“I need that CD!”
“No, you don’t.”
“I do! Yes, I do! It will remind me of our honeymoon! Please, please, please, please, please let’s buy it.”
“Okay. FINE. I know you won’t listen to it again. It’s such a waste of money.”
“I will. I promise I will.”
Never listened to it. I mean, maybe I did for a few days afterwards, but, yeah, that’s it.
Fast forward to our 10-year anniversary trip to New Orleans. We were waiting in the loooooooong line of people outside of Cafe du Monde for the famous beignets and cafe au lait. There were TONS of people waiting with us. We slowly moved through the line like coffee-loving tortoises. After I got bored of wondering where the people went that used to work there and how it was that another family came to own the place when they didn’t speak even speak French at all and were kind of throwing me off of my Louisiana French experience, my thoughts settled on a group of older men playing saxophones.
This saxophone-playing jazz/gospel group was keeping us, their captive audience, entertained with their music. One of my favorite pasttimes is to imitate old white men in a Baptist church singing gospel music, so, this was just my thing. I love to sing the main melody and then add in that deep, deep-voiced bass singer adding his little two cents throughout the song. It’s kind of a mix of really old lady, Broadway and a 89-year-old man named Tom Smith all mixed together. These weren’t old white men, though. They were better. They had some spunk. Some jazz going on, youknowwhati’msayin?
“CDs!! WE’VE…GOT…CDs!!” shouted the main singer breathlessly as he walked up and down the beignet-starved line after belting out his tunes. “TEN DOLLARS!”
“We need that CD”, I whispered through clenched teeth to my husband, knowing I’d meet resistance.
“We don’t need it, Kelley. You won’t listen to it.”
“I will! It will remind me of our time on our honeymoon!! Please, please, please get it. Look, that man needs us to buy one. Proceeds probably go to help victims of Hurricane Katrina.”
“Fine. Here’s $10. I can’t believe you’re buying that CD. None of that money is going to anyone involved in Hurricane Katrina, either. I can’t believe I just handed you $10 to buy that CD.”
“You don’t know that. It might be!”
Annnnnd…you guessed it. Bought it and I didn’t really listen to it. Maybe I listened to a few songs for about 4 days, but then it all fizzled out. Our relationship soured like so many before.
CDs and I have an awful track history. The first time we meet, we are BFF’s. We may first lock eyes in Grand Cayman, in New Orleans or across the aisle at Target. “I need you”, I always mouth to him. He smiles back. Not long thereafter, I want to take the CD with me to the store. I want to take him inside my house. I laugh and I cry with it. I want to buy BFF necklaces for it, maybe even promise rings. We sing along together while holding hands, swaying back and forth and closing our eyes as we hit the strong notes together. We contemplate being a duet team on American Idol or The Voice. I carry it on my hip like a small child.
But, then, I drop it like a skillet that you put in the oven and forgot about until you preheated the oven one day to 350 and then peeked in there to see it sitting there all mad and stuff, because, “Hello! Get me out of here!” and then you realize it was, like, super hot and so you grabbed your oven mitts and took it out. (I couldn’t think of a good cliche, so this was the next best thing.)
These CDs I loved, my BFF CDs even, get shuffled under the other CDs that have lost my affection. I decide to listen to the radio instead. Or my iPod. Or my son’s version of Twinko, Twinko Wittu Stah. Or it gets stuffed in a cardboard box situated under my short-sleeved shirts in my closet with the TONS of CDs I have from the 80s and 90s that I can’t part with because, well, they’re CDs! They’re the original!
Over the years, there have only been a few that have stayed my BFF for more than a few weeks. I love the theme music from the first season of Felicity. I used to listen to the soundtracks for Moulin Rouge and Primal Fear a lot. The Beastie Boys. WARREN G. Garth Brooks’ No Fences. I’m noticing a trend here… I think I treated my CDs better when I had more time alone in the car. I think that’s it, because all of those CDs I treated right I encountered before I had children! The light totally clicked in my brain. Totally. Clicked.
I feel like I need to go and write a letter of apology to my CDs. For real. Poor things. It’s not their fault, right? Especially those CDs from Cayman and New Orleans?? Oh, man, I’m really getting emotional over here. I’m absolutely inconsolable! IT WASN’T THEIR FAULT!
I’M SORRY, CDs!!!!!!!!!!! I’m so sorry! GAH! My heart! Can you hear me, CDs??? And, tapes, I’m so, so sorry!!! I will never recover from the injustice I have bestowed up on all of you innocent tapes! Will I ever get over this physical pain in my chest from all the hurt I’ve caused you both??
*Becomes miraculously composed*
Tell me, have you ever treated a CD wrong? Which CDs have you treated right? And tapes?