I want to be better. As in, I want to be a better person, and I’m pretty sure I’m not alone. It’s just that sometimes you reach the point where you could very easily be singing “Fix You” by Coldplay to yourself ABOUT yourself. That’s when you know it’s time to make a change.
I’d like to “fix” a myriad of things. I’d like to eat things other than cereal, develop some core strength, and become a “chill” texter. The thing that seems to be holding me back the most, however, besides the distance from my dorm to the gym, is the fact that I get too bogged down either being intimidated by people or just resenting them for no justifiable reason. I’m *cough cough* insecure.
That being said, I’ve found a mask for my insecurities solution! Now, I’ve only been testing this for about a week, but I feel like I can confidently share this with the world as if I were a celebrity with a new diet plan. Believe me when I say that listening to 1940s jazz music makes me a better person. I have discovered that my “resting bitch face” was not “just how my face looks,” but was in fact what most women fear: genuine bitterness.
Allow me to elaborate. Jazz provides me with a wonderful background soundtrack that no other genre can compete with. Taylor Swift makes me feel as if everyone on campus is wearing white Adidas. Jack Johnson makes me want to skip class and make pancakes. And Rihanna just makes me want to sit and listen to ALL of Rihanna.
But, jazz…jazz sedates me, in the way I so desperately need to be sedated. I shall call it anxiety’s tranquilizer. It allows me to walk across the Main Green and feel a sense of peace as I imagine everyone simply floating through an old movie. In my jazz-induced coma, no one is judging my greasy hair or minds if I don’t wear a bra and let my boobs rest on my upper fat roll. No one cares anyway.
The thought of someone taking this sweet, sweet jazz away from me is simply unfathomable, and would likely put my friendships at risk by inviting the all-consuming judgey-yet-insecure mindset to reign over my life once again. I’m sure this is not what my English professor anticipated when he oddly (and shockingly) announced that he had crafted SIX playlists for us (trendily all on Spotify) to listen to as accompaniment to the 500-page novel we were already reading.
I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say that the majority of the class likely didn’t listen to all six playlists, let alone use them for conversation kindling when they’re trying to make new friends such as I did. Nevertheless, this jazz has been a gift unto me, AND it makes me want to use words like “unto.” I’m still in the phase of deciding whether my short week of listening has made me inadvertently more pretentious. (I hope not).
I do, however, hope that listening to 40s jazz produces the same effect as playing Mozart for a baby with hopes that it will make the baby smarter. I am wholeheartedly the baby in this whirlwind love affair, as I regrettably cannot provide much background knowledge or history to the genre YET. But like the baby will soon become a renowned concert pianist due to his early exposure to Mozart, I will become someone who can do mental math, muse about history, and hold my liquor whilst sad-drinking.
I do hope that you consider listening to these playlists. You can stalk me on Spotify and find them there. Embarrassing or not, you may notice that my top artists on Spotify have been replaced by Rex Stewart and Duke Ellington, so, don’t judge. Just think, “Hey good for her,” because instead of “internalizing” my all my anxieties, I now healthily turn to good ol’ Rex and Duke when I find myself alone and just need to hear someone say, “Hey Caroline. Calm the fuck down, okay?”