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WellRed
BY WEB EDITOR KARSEN PRICE
 Confessions
From The Treadmill
I have a confession to make.
I have been secretly listening to Britney Spears’ new song, Piece Of Me.
Admitting this outloud mortifies me.
You see, I am of the era of Debra Harry, Belinda Carlisle, and Madonna, back when women who made a living as pop stars could actually, well, sing. And while I listen to a wide variety of music — I am possibly the only person in the universe whose iPod includes Carmen McRae, John Denver and Slipknot — there is one common denominator about the music I listen to: On some level, the artists generally can hold a tune.
There are reasons I think I should not be listening to Britney Spears. For one, she sets a terrible standard for young girls. I have a 5-year-old daughter who is unaware of her appearance, or sexuality, or belly-button rings — and that’s exactly the way I like it. For another, Britney makes motherhood look like a Jerry Springer episode.
But the primary reason I shouldn’t be listening to Britney is because I think the girl flat-out cannot sing.
I didn’t listen to Britney before she shocked the world with her absence of Victoria’s Secrets. I didn’t listen because I firmly believed that Britney is to singing what Queen Elizabeth is to England; a figurehead. She looks the part, and moves her lips (not to mention, hips), and while she dances, the synthesizers and dub masters work their magic. Watching this girl from Louisiana get rich with such little vocal talent has been almost as disheartening as learning that Carolyn Keane, author of my prized Nancy Drew Mystery Stories growing up, was actually a conglomeration of writers and not a real person. I don’t do fake. My one contribution to the world of music, if nothing else, is that I. Do. Not. Listen. To. Britney.
Now, here I am, 37 years old, with my master’s degree behind me and a great job in front of me, my women’s studies and music appreciation classes under my belt, the writing of George Eliot and Jane Austen and Harper Lee running eloquent circles in my brain … and I’m listening to Britney.
I partly blame Charlotte’s radio stations for this faux pas. I have lived in The Queen City all my life; I know their playlists by heart. Music is important to me, almost as important as the written word. These days, I find myself turning to homegrown music CDs — those that I make, those that others make for me — and in the course of creating one playlist (appropriately titled, “ANY New Music,”) I came across Piece of Me and bought it for a buck.
The song is catchy, in a mindless way. Techno-tronic, a beat that makes you want to dance, and of course, her synthesized voice. It serves two purposes, really: It wakes me up during my commute to work, and it keeps my feet pounding on the treadmill long after I want to quit. (Which incidentally, is after about eight minutes at 6.0 speed.) One more minute, I coax myself. Two more. Just until she sings the chorus. To Britney’s beats, I push myself.
While I run, I stare at the numbers tallying on the treadmill. And I think. Not about the exorbitant price of gas these days, or the handful of Very-Important-People in my life who are at this minute battling cancer. For three minutes and 12 seconds, I don’t think about the recent juggling act I have undertaken as assistant editor of Today’s Charlotte Woman, or about my daughter and the pins that will be pulled from her broken elbow in 11 days. Instead, I listen to Spears’ lyrics: “I’m Mrs. Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous. I’m Mrs. Oh, My God, That Britney’s Shameless. I’m Mrs. Extra! Extra! This Just In. I’m Mrs. She’s Too Big, Now She’s Too Thin.” I ponder the words, thinking about Britney, a woman I share so little in common with, and how this silly little song has zeroed in on a problem that surely has plagued every women at some point — the feeling that nothing we do is good enough, that every act is under review, that everything we try to accomplish always falls short. We’re always too big; we’re always too thin.
And so I’ve decided to let myself off the hook for breaking my musical boycott. All because of one half-second of insight voiced high and electronically by Britney Spears, a woman I neither know nor admire. Without guilt, I listen; I empathize. And I run. TCW
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