“Wannabe” is my phone’s favourite song

Yesterday morning marked the third day in a row that I did not want to exercise.

‘Deloading’ builds muscle and a few days off is no big deal. Truth is, my mood was in the dumper and I couldn’t be bothered.

When I started this whole regime, I had a motivational trick I played on myself. The night before, when I felt inspired, I would pack up my car. That way, when I inevitably tried to talk myself out of going, I would curse at the effort of having to go to the car, unload the car, bring everything inside, and risk waking up Mell and the kids.

For those three days I didn’t go to the gym, I only put my stuff by the front door, not putting the effort into bringing it to my car. I let my subconscious sabotage my efforts.

Turns out, my phone had other ideas.

Spotify still doesn’t work on my Windowsphone so I have fallen back to using Deezer. But a recent Deezer update caused the app to crash. Thinking that all was lost, and still mad at myself for not going to the gym for the second day in a row, in a fit of pique, I reset my whole phone back to factory setting and configured it all over again – an effort to distract myself from what angered me. Deezer Support’s prompt reply was an apology and a request to reinitialize the app with an assurance it would work. And work it did. I left it on the counter overnight to sync and download all of my music. That was the evening of the night before.

I checked the phone yesterday morning, checking for music and playlist downloads. I scrolled through, happy all was intact, when suddenly, one of them starts to play.

Wannabe” blares out in the quiet morning kitchen. It was 5:30AM. When the phone reset, it must have put all volumes to full blast.

“Ha ha ha ha ha

Yo, I’ll tell you what I want, what I really, really want

So tell me what you want, what you really, really want”

The phone locks up. My PIN doesn’t want to work. The volume won’t turn down. The laundry room is so small it amplifies the sound. I can envision it screaming up the air ducts and into everyone’s room.

It gets all the way to the next,

“So tell me what you want, what you really, really want

I wanna, (ha) I wanna, (ha) I wanna, (ha) I wanna, (ha)”

Before I tear off the protective cover and pop out the battery.

I rush out of the house, avoiding more commotion that would wake up my family. Standing by the car, I resist the urge to throw the phone into the field across the street.

Playing motivational pranks on myself is one thing – like pre-loading my gym bag the night before – but this was something else entirely. This time it was a conspiracy between my phone and my subconscious to shame me into getting back into things.

Like  mob enforcer, it’s saying to me, “Alright, pal. You think ‘Spice Girls‘ is bad? Maybe one day in the middle of the meeting we’ll just play “Mmmmbop” when you are making a presentation. Or maybe “Billie Jean“? You like to dance a little to that one, don’t you? Oh, you won’t like that? That’s too bad. Maybe if you get your ass to the gym, all these problems might go away. I’d hate for bad things to happen and maybe embarrass you. That would be terrible. For you…”

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