Some noise feels like it’s personally out to get you. For example: the screaming child in the supermarket issuing shrieks that ricochet off the tinned tomatoes and into your spinal cord.
Or worse … The person having a full-volume speaker-phone conversation in the produce section.
Seriously? Why? Use your phone like a normal human, Janet. You don’t see me blasting my therapy sessions over the blueberries.
And don’t even get me started on the utter “fun fairs” that are furniture stores.
I spent my weekend sofa hunting – because apparently midlife means having strong opinions about lumbar support – and the number of parents letting their children run wild was astounding. Packs of small humans leaping onto display couches like it was the Olympic vault. Screeching and reenacting Jurassic Park.
Those noises? Weapons-grade. Noise that drains you, frays you, chips at your patience one decibel at a time.
But then … there’s the other kind.
The noise you choose. The kind that hits your chest like a defibrillator for the spirit. The kind that rearranges your organs and makes you grin like you’re 16 again and absolutely up to no good.
I’m talking about the sound of the drums beating in my heart.
Funny, isn’t it? The same volume that makes you homicidal in a shopping centre somehow feels like bliss when it’s blasting from a stage.
This week I’m off to AC/DC – loud enough to loosen your fillings – and honestly, I can’t wait. Give me noise that shakes my lungs. Noise that drowns out the mental load. Noise that doesn’t demand anything from me except to just feel something.
Maybe that’s the real difference. One kind of noise takes from you. The other gives something back.
So, here’s to choosing our volume. Here’s to being irritated by supermarket Karens, but thrilled by stadium-sized chaos. Here’s to being old enough to pack earplugs and young enough to “forget” them on purpose.
See you in the crowd. I’ll be the one yelling like a woman who’s survived toddlers, furniture stores, and speaker-phone warriors.
Love, Em x
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