I don’t get jogging.
I understand running. That’s where you try to go as fast as you can, using your legs.
I understand not running. That’s where you’re not trying to go as fast as you can.
I don’t get jogging.
I understand dancing. That’s where you can’t almost help from moving because of that music. When I ask the store managers, these days, to turn down the music, the truth is, that I’m asking not because I hate the music. It’s because I like it. I usually like it and it makes me want to start dancing. But it’s not dancing time. It’s shop-for-groceries time, and I need to get a job done. Please do not enter my brain and give it dancing signals! I do not want to multi-task here, telling my brain that no, we are not at the club, please concentrate now on whether you’ve found the full-fat cottage cheese (half-fat is a disaster). It is time for me to find the cottage cheese, please.
So cut it with the tunes.
As a matter of fact, the very mention of a song, the very mention of the title of a song, can have a strong effect. For some reason, many moons ago, I went to look up the words of “Ice ice baby” or whatever it is officially called, and I found that it had been nominated Worst Song Ever or something like that. I think it has basically no words, other than Ice Ice Baby.
So I thought that was really funny, the nomination, that is, because I liked the song back then and I probably still would. (I also have much sympathy for all the artists involved in the Milli Vanilli situation. I don’t Blame it on the Rain. I blame it on the greedy record-label people.)
That time I found out about the nomination for Ice Ice Baby, I was dealing with a painting contractor. So I told him what I had read online. I said, “Hey, guess what? I just read that ‘Ice Ice Baby’ was nominated the Worst Song Ever. What do you think?”
We looked at each other. The music fired up in our respective brains. Neither of us moved a muscle. But we both wanted to. He hummed the tune. We laughed the laugh of two people who remembered that time.
There it was, just a title of a song. That’s all it takes, folks.
That’s music for you. Pure intoxication. Goes right into the veins. No brain required.
It’s why I avoid it, when I can. (Good luck on that. Even store managers cannot, they tell me, turn down the volume one iota because they don’t have that kind of power. They all bow to dictums from Head Office, spineless managers. Head Office knows the power of music and its effect on us all. If it were just ‘for fun’ then why the iron-clad-don’t-you-dare-adjust-even-the-volume attitude?).
So I do try to avoid it, where I can.
I need to think.
However, the joggers, well, they don’t always want to think. They want to pretend they are not doing exactly what they are doing. That’s why they need their music, so much of the time. They don’t want to think about how much further they have to jog, and how many times their foot has gone wham on the sidewalk and how much their brain has bobbed against the interior of their skull this morning. (In former days, I probably would have referred to that phenomenon as a mild repetitive concussion.)
They put on the tunes. Then they’re dancing. (They think.)
So I don’t understand jogging. “Wham!” I remember. “Careless Whisper,” I remember. Wham wham wham I do not get.
Or I should say, I didn’t.
This morning, I got it. The lightbulb went on, shall we say. (Hey, that’s thinking for you.)
I totally get it.
I totally understand why all those people are jogging. They’re going HOME. They’ve realized that they are not properly dressed! They’ve realized that they were so busy putting on their new bright yellow florescent running shoes that they forgot the rest! They forgot their shirt, they forgot their pants!
Ha ha ha!
I get it!
I really do!
Power to you, brother. Power to you, sister. I hope you meet your clothes again soon!