I have 18 self-created playlists on Spotify and many other playlists that I follow, but I find myself listening to my liked songs most of the time because I forget all the other playlists are there. I am quite tired of listening to the current liked songs, however (mostly). I’m writing this post to the playlist I titled “write” because I am writing, though I’ve used it for inspiration only once or twice.

My classroom is connected to the adjacent classroom via a storage room, the doors to which are generally open for no particular reason. The teacher in the room across the storage room plays an endless loop of yacht rock, which by now I find myself replaying in my head much of the time. I have heard an increase in the hallways of the singing of Foreigner over the years. That teacher is making an important impact on the current school culture beyond academics. People need variety.

I have a “class time” playlist that I have played in the past that keeps the students happy and working. It’s chock full of Disney and Abba and other catchy tunes, though I slip in a few cheesy 70s songs. Watching students sing Tom Jones to themselves while they work is entertaining in an evil sort of way. I gain bonus points when I play David Bowie and the like, as though I someone my age listening to something so retro and hip is unusual.

I’m currently sitting in a chair in the living room in the exact middle of Labor Day weekend. Again, the house to myself. It’s raining, peaceful, and I cannot find an ounce of inspiration to do the work I stayed home this weekend to do. I have no choice but to do it, which is why I could not go with the rest of the crew to Galveston. My backpack is staring at me, and I’m getting texts of pictures of people on a boat on the ocean holding large salt-water fishes. The guilt is getting to me, as is the sadness of missing out—the kids are calling it FOMO these days—and the procrastination is fading.

My husband sent me a picture of himself with my daughter peering over his shoulder. I sent back a nearly identical picture of him and me that was taken in the same vicinity three years ago. My way of being there, I guess.

Enough. I didn’t miss out on the fun for nothing. And this damn writing playlist is depressing as hell.