‘Don’t feel like dancin’

I think I may be losing my mind. About a month ago, I realized I had not used my tiny lime green iPod nano in some time. I had not been as diligent about working out as I should have been, so I had not really noticed its absence.

But when I was packing for a weekend at the beach, I made a point to look for my little green buddy. It wasn’t in my desk, it wasn’t at work. It wasn’t hiding between my sheets — what? Sometimes I listen to my tunes as I fall asleep — and it wasn’t in my car.

“O iPod, iPod, wherefore art thou iPod?”

Sorry, Shakespeare. I went there.

But my iPod might as well be my Romeo. It was always there for me, keeping me company on long road trips. It motivated me to exercise and keep pushing to finish that first, second and third mile. My iPod sang me to sleep and eased me into the morning, waking me with my favorite refrains.

At work, when I looked for any excuse to be distracted, Romeo would keep me focused. I carried him along with me wherever I went like Paris Hilton and her Tinkerbelle.

When the realization hit me that my musical companion was missing, my typically cheerful disposition darkened and a fog seeped into my brain. I felt incomplete, like a best friend had moved away.

I recently bought a new laptop — an Apple MacBook, actually. MacBook, Romeo and I were doing great. We all got along, a perfect trio of portable music, more memory and a newly converted Apple user. Everything was as it should be; even if other things in my life were sour, I knew I could count on Mac and Romeo to keep me company.

Until Romeo left.

I realize this may seem silly, especially if you don’t use an iPod. But for those of you who do, you probably have an idea how empty I feel. I haven’t been to the gym in weeks; I have no motivation. I know once I climb onto the treadmill, the boredom of exercising sans music will overtake my desire to get in shape.

I lie awake in bed at night, the silence in my apartment diminished only from the whirring of my fan and the chirping crickets outside. And sometimes the horrific moans and cries from the cat in heat across the street.

And as I listen to the mix CD I burned to keep me focused at work — the same 16 songs on repeat instead of a library of 1,000 — I relate to the words sung so emphatically by the Scissor Sisters.

“But I don’t feel like dancin’, no sir, no dancin’ today.”

I think back on the memories I’ve shared with my buddy: completing my first 5K race, strolling the streets of Valencia, Spain, and rocking out to my favorite song of the week while driving through Culpeper’s countryside.

I think the most recent song I replayed without end was Coldplay’s “Viva La Vida.” Invigorating.

Again, I understand the relationship I had with my iPod was probably unhealthy. But it isn’t just the palm-sized computer; it’s the relationship I’ve built with my music. The connection I have to certain songs when in certain moods can be heartbreaking, rejuvenating, serene or simply mindless.

Singing — if you can call it that — along to the tunes in my car or at home is a release, a catharsis. I will listen to almost any genre of music — save the kind that makes you want to slit your wrists — as long as it’s something I can sing along with. Luckily for me, however, I don’t need an iPod just to listen to music.

During the past few weeks I’ve weaned myself from Romeo, though I still miss him terribly. And I would just quit my griping and buy a new one, but I’m still feeling the pinch from my recent laptop investment.

Perhaps this is a good thing — thinking of an electronic device as the love of my life is a sure sign I’m losing my mind. But I’m also thinking anything that gets me to the gym is a necessary expense.

Catherine Amos doesn’t have the money for it, but she’s still browsing new iPods online. She can be reached at 825-0771 ext. 138 or .