Music Theory 101

Every once in a while I'll be plodding along as per usual, yelling at the kids to stop yelling and wondering whether there is a Standard Measurement of Ridiculousness so I can assign an accurate percentile to just how ridiculous it is that I'm still wearing pajama pants at certain hours of the day in the hopes of inspiring myself to shower and dress, when I'll hear a song I've heard and enjoyed a million times, but this time the lyrics will grip me in a way they never had before. Tightening my chest, bent on squeezing every last ounce of moisture out of my tear ducts. I'll choke back tears until I can steal a few minutes solo in the bathroom because crying while serving pizza for breakfast might be psychologically damaging to my spawn.

Yes, I said pizza for breakfast. That's what they wanted. It had bacon on it and I figure there is no better time than the present to practice being a college student.

The other day, it was this song...



...No change, I can change, I can change, I can change, but I'm here in my mold, I am here in my mold. But I'm a million different people from one day to the next, I can't change my mold, no, no, no, no, no, no, no...

Yes, that.

I won't subject you to my verse by verse interpretation because I'm remiss to give you an Attack of the Eyerolly Sighs and I think the dishes are feeling buoyed by the accompaniment of microscopic allies and have begun plotting to make our house their bitch, so I should probably get on that.

But, suffice it to say, I was hit that day with the realization that "won't" sure feels a lot like "can't" sometimes.

I am here in my mold. I am here in my mold.

At least you know where to find me. And, for that matter, so do I. Silver lining.

This morning I examined both my Mt. Everest sized zit and the ever present crow's feet laugh lines framing my eyes. I looked myself straight in those eyes, something I rarely do, too much unknown there (or should I say, known), and thought, "Zube, you are not getting any younger." And maybe that spiraled into an inner dialogue amongst the judgey voices in my head regarding my complete refusal to 'grow-up' and do something with my life already.

My inner-cheerleader lost a pom-pom in the shuffle but did her best to defend me. "Sure, she's a thirty-five-year-old waitress, but she is a damn good one! Give me a 'W'!"

Thwack! Oh, there's that missing pom-pom. Not sure which judgey asshole had it, I'm eying the scowly guy with the furrowed brow, but regardless, the cheerleader is down for the count. Pom-pom to the head.

Amidst the ringing in her ears, the verse, "Trying to make ends meet, you're a slave to money then you die..." skips. And skips. And skips.

I was once told by someone, someone who should have known better, that I am not successful.

It rung true, which is why it hurt so much and why I can't unhear it. And probably why the person who said it said it.

And since being told that I've worn my failures as a badge of honor.

I will likely brag about them tomorrow.

I'm so cool. Usually.

But, today, that's not one of the million different people I happen to be...

That's okay. I can change...I can change...

Tomorrow.