Sweat More
On music and motivation and meaning
When I was 15, I got my first job. It was at my massive, no-way-this-can-be-a-church church. It seated thousands and the campus needed a grounds crew. My dad, a landscape architect with unstoppable work ethic, ran that grounds crew. I was hired and immediately put to work pulling weeds, planting flowers, cutting grass.
I sucked at it. I whined about my plight daily. I couldn’t tell a plant from a weed. I drove my mower into the pond and had to call an adult for help getting it fished out.
But I worked hard sometimes. I got tan. And I got paid. Not a lot, but I earned it. And with my fat stacks, I made a wise investment: CDs from Best Buy. The first one I bought was Enema of the State by Blink-182. I liked “What’s My Age Again?” and thought the music video was funny. I had no clue what to expect on the other 11 tracks.
The CD was $18, roughly the cost of two months of Spotify Premium today.
I’ve written before about how music, a little like our sense of smell, is capable of time travel. We all have different musical triggers that can transport us back to a time and place. For me, this stupid Blink-182 album is a DeLorean. Three examples:
I hear “What’s My Age Again?” and I’m wooshed back to my best friend’s house. We’re watching Total Request Live and cracking up at the music video. I’m handfuling Corn Pops straight from the box to my mouth.
I hear “Going Away To College” and I’m back in my bedroom, on the phone with a girl and thus blocking our homes’ AOL access. I’m HOLDING THE BOOM BOX UP TO THE PHONE LIKE AN IDIOT because I think the song articulates my feelings.
I hear “Dysentery Gary” and involuntarily skip the song in a moment of irrational panic, fearing Mom and Dad will know their 32-year-old son is listening to a song with an F-bomb.
I loved and still love Enema of the State because I dripped with sweat to acquire it. I listened to the entire record countless times, and the tracks became the background music to my 15-year-old summer. I had no choice but to love it.
I don’t drip with sweat much these days. My gut is slowly but surely growing into something I’ll one day need to address. I’m wonderfully comfortable nearly all the time. And, perhaps this is a coincidence and perhaps it isn’t, I enjoy my endless Spotify Premium skips and rarely pay attention to what I’m listening to.
Excuse me. I need to write a letter to myself.
Luke,
Hey there, champ. Got a sec? Sweet. Let’s chat.
I’m not sure when it happened, but you are smothered by your electronics. They’re everywhere. You listen to podcasts while you’re doing chores. You play PS4 when you should be writing. Your phone simply does not leave you alone and you should probably get a restraining order against it.
Look, podcasts are wonderful. PS4 is crazy fun. Phones are a flat-out miracle. But these comforts have to be earned. You are not earning them. You’re just coasting and believing you’re entitled to them.
You’re a good husband. But you know your wife loves spontaneous notes of affirmation and grand adventures. Why aren’t you giving them to her?
You’re a good dad. But do you realize how often you’re looking at your phone while your son is looking at you?
Be better. Pull some weeds. Plant some seeds. Sweat more.
All the best,
15-year-old you
Hi there. I’m Luke and I’m a copywriter. I’ve written other things on Medium. Check them out here.
