It is a bit humorous that the smallest gift I received this Christmas, thus far, came in the largest box. The box my boyfriend said held a dead, stuffed dog from my childhood, the very same dog I saw this morning running around my sister’s house. It was a nice joke, because the wool was over my eyes the entire time. It was a good surprise.
And now, I am sitting at my laptop, copying the CDs that Dave and I own onto my hard drive. I know many people who judge a person by the contents of their iPod (I was just insulted, moments ago, for owning an Elton John CD) and I am on the verge of an anxiety attack trying to decide what music to store on the less-than-4GB of memory I have on the device. Though I am the only person that will listen to the iPod, with the exception of Dave who might borrow it on occasion, I want to still be cool. Even if it is hard for a lifetime nerd to lift that stigma.
Like everything else in my life, I am exceedingly picky about the music in my life. My life, unlike Dave, was not very musical. My parents did not expose me to a wide range of listening pleasures and I never had the inclination to pursue the instruments I attempted to play. I have always been a better writer/talker than listener, which probably explains my relationship with Dave. So, when it comes to choosing music, I really have no idea where to start. Nevertheless, no matter what my choices from the beginning may be, I feel guilty for not willingly expanding my musical taste. My iPod will contain all the songs I already know by heart, so I will have a total of five songs.
Hopefully, with a little help from Sinatra and a touch from Beethoven, I can pull off that hip, but classic, vibe I attempt to portray everyday. We shall see – the real critic is sitting a room away fiddling with his own gifts.