Growing up in my parents’ home with four sound-barrier-breaking siblings, a skittish dog that barked when a leaf fell off a tree, and a TV blaring all day was as peaceful as taking a yoga class at an artillery range. I couldn’t wait to move away from this never-ending eardrum assault.
Throughout college and even after I graduated, I lived with roommates who kept their mouths and music on mute. I even sought out someone quiet to date, which at the time seemed like a good idea until it wasn’t. Relationships work better when two people communicate, resolve issues by talking with one another using words other than “uh-huh” and “whatever,” and know when silence is not so golden.
Now that I’m an empty nester, my home and life is monastery-quiet (minus the brown robes and celibacy pledge) until I visit my out-of-town boyfriend or he visits me. Quiet mornings are to him what sleeping late is to parents with toddlers.
My morning routine is simple: I exercise, take a shower and then park myself in front of my computer. My boyfriend gets out of bed, turns on the bathroom radio and then listens to a local radio show whose morning host’s booming voice sounds like he’s gargling rocks inside an active volcano. Not wanting to miss a morning with his favorite Jerk Jockey while out of town, my long-distance love figured out how to stream the show over the Internet and into my bathroom.
One morning as I was putting on make up, I decided to give the show another chance rather than turn it off right away. After a few minutes I admitted to the show’s biggest fan that I may have jumped to conclusions; the host wasn’t as stress-inducing and brain-splitting as I had previously thought. My boyfriend turned to me and said, “See…he’s not that bad” at the same time the host went on a rant like a spoiled traveler who complains about having to fly coach.
Staring into the mirror, my hands shaking harder than the backside of a backup dancer at a music awards show, all I could think about was poking my boyfriend in the eye with the eyeliner pencil that had left me looking like a band member for KISS. If I could bottle the stress that radio host was causing me, and people actually bought it, I’d be a millionaire.
Then I could buy a house with soundproof walls and two separate master bathrooms.
— Lisa Kanarek
Lisa Kanarek is a freelance writer, the author of five books about working from home, and writes the work-from-home blog Working Naked. Her work has been featured on various sites including BonBon Break, In the Powder Room, Grown and Flown, Ten to Twenty Parenting and MockMom. She is a co-author of the bestselling book Feisty After 45. She is the mother of two sons in college and has lived in Texas half her life, but may be breaking state law by not owning a pair of cowboy boots.