It seems my new music-loving neighbor is an early riser like myself. Two things in common, three if you count we’re both women. Our morning rituals differ, no surprise there. I wake up to greet three kitty faces, turn on my favorite classical music station to play softly while I cater to cat needs, take AM meds, jog on my rebounder and perform coffee yoga (you don’t know what that entails, do you?) waiting for that first and best cup of coffee to brew.
She wakes up next to her boyfriend, unless she’s a ventriloquist and can flawlessly mimic a man’s voice (that’d be so cool; wonder what the “dummy” looks like?) and soon carries on a long dialogue with her “boyfriend,” at times sounding a bit put out, pissed, perhaps. By whom or what I’m not sure. Look, I’m not holding a glass to our shared wall. Any sound-proofing built into this building’s walls works about as well as a sheet of phyllo dough. Their exchange lasts a good half hour, followed at about 10AM on a SUNDAY MORNING with music issuing forth from her superior amplification system.
I’m not calling her out as a sinner playing the Devil’s music on God of Choice Day. I doubt that’s a rule in the Agnostic Creed, which isn’t a creed so much as a crumpled piece of paper with a scribbled list of what I need at CVS. There’s something about a Sunday morning though, isn’t there? Well, I cherish Sundays and that’s all that matters. So before heading to the lobby to pick up a UPS package, I turn on my favorite playlist and up to 11 again. Mind you, my amplification system consists of my laptop. I close my apartment door behind me and can’t hear Eddie Vedder sing, “Tonight You Belong to Me” anymore. The ventriloquist’s? Ya betcha. I hear it stepping out of the elevator a long hallway (like the scary “twins” one in The Shining) and two-thirds of our hallway away from her apartment. My “Love” playlist? Nope.
So as long as she plays music at an inappropriate volume while I’m home, it’s an urban “Dueling Banjos” of sorts, without the icky man rape, of course. Much missed therapist, Peggy, would give me two enthusiastic “thumbs up,” I believe, if only ’cause singing and music are my most reliable coping skills when depression takes me down. I’m a happy camper right now. A little peaceful protest. And now I must leave you as I need to jam to Joan Jett’s “Bad Reputation.”
“Joan Jett is cool.” (Quote courtesy of Beavis or Butthead, I can’t remember.)
Don’t forget: May is Mental Health Awareness Month. “You don’t say, 43YOV?”