It’s my car and I have always said I will control the music in my car. As they got older, however, that became harder and harder.
I used to be the sole owner of my car. It was my happy place. Windows down, music blaring, dreaming of the future that lies ahead. I used to not have piles of trash in it that were so disgusting not even the rats wanted to enter. I used to not have goldfish and French fries that created cures for infections they existed so long in the crevices. I used to drive a car that didn’t smell like a high school locker room.
Now? I share it with two teenagers.
They are trying to take the one and only amount of sanity I get from the 50 miles a day I drive in a seven mile radius for their sweaty, French fry crunching, goldfish spilling butts. They want to control my music.
“This is my car and I will listen to the music I want to listen to,” I proclaimed today. “I give you everything I have and all I ask is this one tiny thing as I cater to your every need all day long,” I continue aware that I am now sounding needy and they have already covered their ears to fend off the sound of my XMRadio station Blend which is currently playing Kid Rock and Sheryl Crow’s, I Put Your Picture Away. Which I LOVE. Don’t judge me.
I crank my music a little louder feeling proud of my ability to stand strong. I will listen to my music in MY car. And? There is nothing their teenage, eye rolling, ear covering butts can do about it.
“KILL ME NOW,” Keenan wails.
“Please make it stop. It’s HORRIBLE,” Noah responds.
Both are still covering their ears.
I crank the music even louder to drown out their pathetic whining and to prove to them that I WILL win this one.
“This music is miserable. Who listens to this crap?” Keenan yells.
“You know that more people kill themselves every year because of country music than any other music because it’s all about how girls break men’s hearts,” Noah says.
You are kidding me.
I turn it up even more.
“THAT WON’T STOP US,” Keenan screams.
“DID I MENTION THIS IS HORRIBLE. TURN IT OFF,” Noah yells.
My face is now red and my heart is racing. I can barely restrain myself form screaming profanities at them for being such jerks.
“FINE,” I say, “You want it off? I will turn it off.”
Then I shut the radio off completely and stared straight ahead. Defeated. And pissed.
I am pathetic. I just gave in to teenagers. TEENAGERS. One glance at their faces and I realized they had won.
Not happening. I regained my composure and formulated a plan in my head. “So,” I ask, “How was school today? Who did you sit with at lunch? Did you like your teachers? Do you have a lot of cool kids in your classes? Were there any hot chicks?”
Keenan, “Can you turn the music back on?”