It’s official.
My entire youth fits into one New York City subway tote. Granted, a few things are missing like Gilmore Girls seasons 1 – 7, a handful of neon jelly bracelets and a very beat up pair of red Converses. However the bag does hold my once monstrous CD collection, or what’s left of it.
Around my junior year, I began purging my CD collection. I got rid of anything I’d be embarrassed for someone to see. (I’m looking at you ‘NSYNC “No Strings Attached.”) That was also the time I stopped buying new CDs. After much dogged determination to hold on to the good ole days when new music meant going to Best Buy not clicking “purchase” on iTunes, I finally began buying all my music digitally. The music might not have died that day but it sure sounded melancholy.
Today–or rather tomorrow when I haul my tote bag to The Exchange and see what my youth amounts to in dollars in cents–the music will have unofficially died. All the CDs I’m selling will have a forever home on my iPod, Janis, (as in Joplin), but it still feels a tad bittersweet.
There’s no need to keep them. They take up valuable shelf space and rarely do I pop a CD into my Bose player. It’s much easier to just plug in Janis and hit shuffle. But those CDs got me through my awkward high school years when I wanted to dress like Penny Lane from “Almost Famous” and date the lead guitarist. They got me through college when I struggled with classes, tried to deal with my OCD, and spent nights bemoaning boys with my roommate. Music was and is a huge part of my life, and my collection of 200+ CDs went along with it. I worry that no one will know I’m cool just by looking at my CD collection. After all, scrolling through an iPod just isn’t as romantic.
I remember the mix CDs my friends and I made constantly. I remember the summer of ’06 when my favorite album was The Ataris “So Long, Astoria.” I remember buying CDs from earnest musicians peddling their wares outside the gates of Warped Tour in Cincinnati. I remember singing along to “Hands Down” and “New American Classic” and “Empty Apartment.” I remember when I was convinced no man would ever make me feel the way Chris Carrabba could when he strums that guitar.
I still remember everything.
