I remember my first walkman. It was the really slim and needed just one AA battery. It looked like this:
I would turn it all of the way up, and sing along at the top of my lungs. Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars was always good for the walk to high school, or maybe Ocean Rain or Upstairs at Eric’s. I did not care what this looked or sounded like from the outside, I was in that headphone bubble, navigating a conservative town chock full of petty beliefs and narrow minds. Those walks made things a little easier.
As a parent, I frown when my daughters march around the house with headphones on, blaming it on some sort of detachment, and announce that it is impolite. But a few days ago, I plugged some headphones into my ears during a long walk to the market and ended up rethinking this. While I normally believe in active looking and listening, soaking up the world in the moment - when that world grows ugly, even toxic at times, headphones are quite the solution. Maybe it was the Spring air, or the gentle sun on that side of Chavchavadze Street, but those headphones made everything better. One song from some random playlist I pulled together ages ago came on, and I found myself loping around the sidewalk like a Solid Gold Dancer, shimmying and shaking, almost skipping. The music was infectious and the haters could not keep me down in that odd afternoon hour. Maybe my kids are onto something.
Like any human that feels all of the feels, my moods run hot and cold and random as roulette. Are we all naturally a bit bipolar as a result of that? And when I am wounded, or disappointed, betrayed or rejected, do I lick my wounds in a dark corner until they heal? Is that a form of depression or is that simply being a person?
The song is ending, and I wonder how the hell it got on that playlist. I pluck the headphones off and tuck them in my pocket. I refuse to be that guy in the supermarket with them in. I find pancetta, and some of the first asparagus. And here is that farm milk, waiting to be transformed into ricotta at home, after it simmers and I squeeze a lemon into it.
The bag thumps against my hip on the way home, and I put the headphones back in.
Sensory overload is real.
All the men in my family run around the house with either noise-canceling headphones (then at least you know they can't hear you want you talk to them), or ear buds, which they tap once they see I'm saying something, and then I have to repeat what I said. I've come to accept that that's the way it is. Unlike you, they're usually not listening to music but have podcasts babbling at them.