You know I can't live without my radio

I've always loved music. As a little kid, I played it constantly on the record player in my room. In junior high, I moved up to a crackly clock radio, and then a cassette player which I carefully held up to the clock radio to record my own mix tapes.

But the highlight of my music appreciation was when I got my first car. The car itself was super cute, a little maroon Honda, but what I loved best about it was the custom stereo.

It had a cassette player, it was loud, and it was powered solely by me, or whichever passenger I entrusted to monitor it. I could (and did) crank the tunes in that car, a thumping blend of '80s new wave and dance music trailing behind me through the open windows.

But there was one thing my parents forgot to tell me about that car (well, two actually, if you count "Don't forget to change the oil," which lead to disastrous results). They told me to turn my music down so I didn't go deaf, but that was the only consequence they gave for listening to my music too loud. They never said turn it down or I could blow out the speakers. That fact alone may have prompted me to pump down the jam just a bit.

But they didn't, and I didn't, and one day, I learned the definition of mono ("mono" as in the opposite of stereo, not as in the kissing disease). I clicked on my stereo, heard a pop, and then suddenly, Depeche Mode sounded like they were singing from very far away. They were distant, quiet, singing out of only the passenger side speaker.

And that's when I learned my lesson about the fragility of car speakers. Some people would've stashed that in their "Good to know" mental filing cabinets, but I promptly forgot about it. Subsequently, I blew out the speakers in my next three cars.

Which brings us to present day...I'm no longer a teenybopper, as my mom still calls everyone under 20. I have a car, a house, a kid, a sense of responsibility that extends beyond 10 minutes from now. And yet, I still like that music loud.

My son loves music, too. He spends half his time in the car asking me, "Who sings this?" or begging me to change the channel. He does not, however, share my enthusiasm for singing loud and proud.

We roadtripped south for Thanksgiving last week, and I was blaring the radio, as always. My high school boyfriend, George Michael, was singing lead, and I was backing him up like no other. I whooped it up, and shouted at Mark to join along. (I also may have inadvertently given him fodder for his first therapy session as an adult, wherein he explains to his psychologist the deep and irreversible damage I caused by insisting he sing along to "Baby, I'm Your Man." But that's beside the point...)

And there we were, somewhere north of Vista, when I heard it. That unmistakable crackle, and then the volume halved. It was like the music took a seat--one minute it danced throughout the whole car; then, the next minute, it tired out and sat down on the passenger side. I heard the distinctive tinny sound I knew meant bad news.

"Dang it!" I said. "I blew out the speaker." Only this time, I was explaining it to my son, not my  dad.

But the reaction was the same. As though he were channeling my dad, Mark shook his head and tsk-tsked me.

"Man, it's like I'm in high school all over again," I complained. "Hondas have cheap speakers!"

"Or....maybe you listen to your music too loud," Mark said. I shot him the stink eye. All my life I heard, "If it's too loud, you're too old." I looked at Mark and thought, "I didn't know you could also be too young."

So the drive home was a little quieter. We still had plenty of topics to converse about. I suggested it was a lovely time to discuss holiday lists, and which gifts we'd like for Christmas. And ever-so-subtly, I mentioned that if anyone was writing letters to the big guy with the flying reindeer, maybe he could put in a good word for his mom, and how much she'd appreciate a new set of car speakers.