soopastryheart

I worked at a gym throughout college. This gym offered a daycare center for its members, and this daycare center was located just yards away from the front desk, my unofficial designation. We shared a wall. There was no door.

On good days, I’d watch tiny toddlers wash the windows with their tongues or attempt to fit an entire jam-covered fist in their jam-covered mouths. On not-so-good days, I’d watch kids pick their noses with their thumbs (and then ever so delicately, deposit the nasal treasures in their mouths) and purposely dump entire Ziploc bags of Cheerios on the floor for no other reason than wanting to watch me sweep it up. On the I-don’t-get-paid-enough-for-this-shit days, these kids made me question my inner sociopath – I would regularly warn my boss that I was thisclose to attacking them with a Bosu. These kids could scream (without provocation) with impressive bravado, without so much as a hiccup for air, and all I could do was sit on my hands and keep from reaching for anything that could be used as a weapon (barbells, phone cords, staplers, etc).

This gym’s clientele catered to the Range Rover/second home in Whistler/wine club demographic. These were people who thought it was perfectly okay to name their kids after exotic spices and herbs or Shakespearean characters (Orsenio? Really?). It was not an odd occurrence to see 3-year-old Cassia wearing a pair of True Religions or carrying around a bottle of Voss, so I was used to their general lack of awareness for adult authority. If I asked repeatedly for Sage or Titus to cease banging against the glass doors with their iPods, they would only respond by tapping into their inner Travis Barker, and promptly banging harder and louder.

Saturday mornings were the worst because kids too old for daycare were still allowed to sit in the lobby (an area directly adjacent to my workspace). These were the kids on a private school power trip. They would raise the volumes on the cartoons to a point where I would be yelling through the phone (on rare occasions I could hear it ring). They would wipe assorted nasal secretions on the couches, walls, and each other. I watched a girl head-butt another and fought like hell to contain my laughter when it was revealed the recipient of said head-butt had chipped a tooth. On more than one occasion, a kid shit his pants – a kid who had to be no less than seven-years-old to be sitting in the big kids club lobby.

With every blood-curling scream and sudden wave of suspicious smells, I could feel my ovaries shrink, my fallopian tubes coil, and my uterus shouting “oh hay-ell nah”. I found little use for birth control – the Saturday morning shift had all but assured my legs would remain firmly locked at the knees.

Eventually, I conditioned myself to tune it out. The screaming, the yelling, the pooping, it all became white noise (and white smell?). Daycare was beyond my job description, and definitely beyond my pay grade. They were not my responsibility or my obligation. If they wanted to practice high kicks on each other’s faces, who was I to stop them? Trainees would stare at me with wide-eyed admiration and asked me how I seemed oblivious to the pint-sized gladiators. I just shrugged and explained how to replace the paper roll on the credit card machine.

I don’t want to make it sound like every kid who came into daycare was a foot soldier of Satan, because there were a few who didn’t make me want to commit violent crimes. I even ended up regularly babysitting for two boys who not only refrained from regularly testing their lung capacities, but also were charmingly polite and well mannered.

See, it’s not that I’m bad with kids. Quite the contrary in fact – I was eleven when my mom dropped the bomb that she was pregnant (at 39, no less), and twelve when Honie rolled into our lives. I changed diapers. I gave baths. I temperature-tested breast milk. I became accustomed to being shushed whenever she was napping. I gritted my teeth when she tore the head off a Barbie doll I had for over a decade. I tolerated her eating my 20-dollar lip balm.

On the rare occasions my parents make the mistake of asking when they should expect grandchildren, I retort by asking if they’re okay with Honie being a teen mom. I point to my mom’s stretch marks, shake my head, and say, “no thank you”. I tell them that I’d be the type of mother you hear about on the news, ones who drive around for blocks with the baby in the car seat on top of the car. Kids are messy. Kids are expensive. Kids are a pain in the ass. Kids I can handle for a few hours at a time, but every hour of every day? I think I’d rather have my fingernails torn off by a pair of rusty pliers. Or subjected to a marathon of Jersey Shore.

And while I can sit here and joke about all the ways I would be an unfit mother, the truth is, they are all excuses to the real reason I am more than a little hesitant about becoming a parent. The real reason? I am fucking terrified of that responsibility.

You know that gut-twisting cloud of doubt and fear that washes over you when you get pulled over? As you see the patrolman walking towards you in your side-view mirror, you rewind your brain for an instant replay, trying to pinpoint all the mistakes you may have made. Maybe you were speeding or didn’t come to a full stop… but suddenly, you’re irrationally worried about crimes you haven’t committed, as if you have a dead body stuffed in the trunk, next to the twenty-kilo of coke. The point is, whenever I get pulled over, I am immediately overwhelmed with the things I have not done. Logic and sanity escape me. I panic. I am ready to confess to murder.

So multiply that by a hundred and that’s how I feel about being a mother, a parent, a human being wholly and indisputably responsible for the growth and well being of another.

Wait Soo, I thought you had aspirations to be a pediatric cardiac surgeon?

Yes, I see how you could be confused. In terms of having another life in your hands, it doesn’t get more metaphorical or literal than that. Going in there, repairing whatever damage to extend and improve the quality of living… that’s life in the biological sense. I could take on that challenge. But the life outside the hospital, the life before and after the trip to the OR, that’s the kicker. I have to worry about the technical stuff, you, the parent, get to worry about everything else. I don’t have to worry about how much television your kids watch or which college-preparatory school is the best. My opinion would only be medical, meaning you’re on your own with the rated R movie debate. Your daughter’s nose ring is irrelevant to me, unless it develops an infection.

I would mew over every decision, major or minor, worrying that I would make the incorrect one. I would make pro/con lists about sleepovers or little leagues. Sure, toddler t-ball could teach teamwork and promote healthy habits, but what if he clubs himself in the face? What if the coach is a pervert? How do parents handle the stress? How do they stop themselves from becoming paranoids, or talk themselves down from creating highly improbable, totally fictional situations?

The truth is, I am far too much of a nut job to be a good parent.

If I had chosen the private school over the public, could my kid have gone to Harvard and found a cure for cancer and AIDS? Did I stunt a growing prodigy when I pulled her out of those piano lessons? If Theodus gets injured in a freak peewee soccer game that cripples him for life, could I ever forgive myself?

And even if you mean well, even with the best intentions, what about all the latent things kids pick up from their parents? If I were short with the barista, would my kid subconsciously learn to belittle others? If after a particularly frustrating phone call with my mother, I roll my eyes and call her crazy, would I be unintentionally giving my kid permission to do the same to me someday? What about all the traits and habits I inadvertently pass on by simply being me?

Learning by osmosis. That’s what I’m afraid of. I’ve seen it first hand. My mom and I didn’t think twice about censoring our dressing room conversations when Honie tagged along during our shopping excursions. My mom would point out the unflattering cut of the skirt, saying it made my thighs look big. I would vocally acknowledge the pudge developing around my mid-section, and my mom would suggest I lay off the dorm food a bit. Honie was little, just starting to read her hand-me-down Dr. Seuss books, and it never crossed my mind that she was absorbing it all in. It wasn’t until a few months later when she refused to wear certain clothes citing “caveman arms” and “muffin top” as reasons that I realized the kind of effect my absentminded opinions had on her.

And I was horrified. She was just a kid – barely being able to tie her shoelaces or pour milk in her cereal without spilling half the carton on the countertop – and already I had accidentally installed in her my insecurities and superficiality. I didn’t want that for her; I didn’t want to teach her anything that I remotely disliked about myself. Honie was going to be a masterpiece, a precocious and refined work of art. She was going to be sassy and smart. She was going to be classy and ladylike, and independent and strong. Basically, she was going to achieve everything I had attempted and failed. She was going to get it right, and I would lead her. I would be her Jiminy Cricket, her fairy godmother, her yellow brick road.

But as soon as I realized that Honie not only learned but also understood what it meant to be insecure, I knew I had already failed. I had already made a dent in her perfection. And worst of all, I had no idea I was doing so.

I don’t know how my parents, or any parents for that matter – do what they do without going completely crazy. There are so many ways to screw up your kid, intentional or not – so how do you raise them without doubting every choice you make? How do you protect without being overbearing? What things can you blatantly teach your kid and what things do you allow experiences to teach? When do you push? When do you pull back? How do you balance everything so your kid has the best chance? How do you stop worrying? How do you know you’re doing it right? Or is it just a blind shot, hoping for the best?

Honie will be thirteen in June. Thirteen. Teen. The chubby cheeks are gone. So is the waddling. The days of subjecting her to ridiculous outfits, trying to get her to unknowingly say “asshole” and “fucktard”, and blaming her for surprise farts are long gone. These days, she’s perfected the art of the condescending eye roll and has an entire wardrobe centered around skinny jeans and Chuck Taylors. Suddenly, I’m hearing phrases like, “leave me alone” and “that’s private” (both usually followed up by, “…you psycho”). I am reminded, a little more everyday, that she has approached an age where I will have to begin to respect the fact that she has secrets. My role as the primary confidant and advice-giver is being slowly phased out and substituted by her friends. And sometimes, I take a step back to wonder… how much of me is incorporated in who she has become? How much have I influenced her? How much have I accidentally taught her? Has she learned anything from me at all? When she makes a mistake that eerily resembles one I made at her age, I question whether or not I should have helped prevent it. When I catch her being a little more than snippy with my mom, I can’t reprimand her without feeing guilty and hypocritical.

And I don’t think I’ll be able to escape the lure of naming my kids after French songstresses or great novels (is Gatsby too much?). I too have fought the urge to buy Honie a pair of $100 Ugg boots when she couldn’t even walk up the stairs. My mom has assured me that all kids pick their noses. And most of them wipe them incongruous places, so I shouldn’t expect mine to be different. I don’t think I’ll be able to handle it if my kid’s preschool teacher tells me that my kid has developed a habit of shaking a turd out of his pants. I don’t think I’ll be able to hide my disappointment when my kids aren’t baby-geniuses, cello sensations, or Nobel Prize winning ambassadors. And more than anything, I’ll be crushed if my kids turn out anything like me.

This is why I can’t imagine becoming a mother. If anything, I need to spare the world, limit the possibility of having more neurotic lunatics like me running around.

I mean, could you imagine?

My mother, bless her heart, isn’t so much a hypochondriac as she is drama queen. If she feels a little heartburn, she will furrow her brows and inform me that’s she’s overdue for a mammogram. If her joints hurt, she’ll ask me the symptoms of osteoporosis. If her eyes are feeling particularly dry, there must be an underlying, pernicious cause. A headache is never just a headache, but a foreshadowing of darker and scarier things. Everything is grave and super serious and really, it’s a miracle she’s alive.

It takes every bit of me to fight the temptation to roll my eyes at her each time she predicts a new ailment, but I do my best to restrict sarcasm and rationalize: she’s had too much spicy food and she rarely uses her reading glasses, causing her to squint while reading the paper. Also, she is 54 and has to be tricked into exercising.

On more than one occasion, she has accused me of being too skeptical or dismissive. And she may be right. But if having worked in hospitals throughout college has taught me anything (other than that security should almost always be present when dealing with crack addicts with large lacerations), it’s that people can be fanatically paranoid when it comes to their health. A paper cut is no laughing matter. A cough should definitely set off some alarms. And everything is a sign of cancer.

Collective hysteria was worst when it came to health-scare fads. I can’t even begin to tell you the crazies who came in during the initial H1N1 scare. It didn’t matter if there were only one or two cases in the entire state, or the fact that the regular flu took more annual victims… her kid got coughed on at recess, damn it, now make sure he doesn’t turn into bacon! Clinics were overwhelmed of families with parents who had yet to teach their kids to wash hands and not lick things. We went through rounds of these of-the-moment health scares; spinach recalls, salmonella outbreaks (and by outbreak, I mean one unfortunate soul from a frugally-catered office party), with almost never finding a true victim.

For the general public and healthcare professionals alike, the human body can be quite the mystery. The only difference between these two groups though, is that the latter have the facilities and means to find a way to answer some questions. My fellow pre-med classmates and I could converse fluently knowing that we shared a background of general knowledge. But then the business or humanities majors couldn’t tell the difference between the trachea and esophagus – and if college-educated folks were this limited to basic anatomy, what about the rest of the population? How much more terrifying (once in high school gym, this kid worried he had strained his ovaries during power squats) was it for them?

But when it comes to health, it’s easy to judge and ridicule when yours is on good terms. However, it’s even easier to jump the bandwagon when it’s not. Our minds are quick to walk in to a dark alley of what-if’s, unable to find our steps back into the lighted streets of rationality. We’ve all read stories about the man or woman who went in for back pains and never came back out. Or, stories about a man or woman who went in for a yearly physical to catch an otherwise deadly disease before it became lethal (i.e. syphilis). Stories like this come aplenty, feeding our preexisting neurosis, all but physically pushing us to jump to conclusions at the first sign of a symptom. What many of us fail to realize is that the stress we place on ourselves worrying about these potential dangers plays a major component to our health. You may have an ulcer, but it’s made worse by the fact you are thinking it’s worse than that.

For every valetudinarian, there’s always a skeptic, someone who plays down the actual malady because it doesn’t seem like a necessary reason for a hospital trip. Once, my roommate was violently ill for an entire day – literally crapping blood every other hour, and suffering unforgiving stomach pains. After 24 hours of agony, we drove to the hospital where she was diagnosed with a case of E.coli. To her defense, she wasn’t recreationally licking toilet seats – she worked in a lab that handled, among other bodily goods, poop. She had a legitimate, hospital-requiring need – and yet, she waited as long as she could before she sought medical attention.

Like many parents, mine have always had high aspirations of their kids becoming physicians (to cover all the bases, my parents wanted a surgeon and a dentist, which meant one of us had a free pass). Sure there’s the bragging-rights (I’m convinced my dad will be one of those people with a “my kid’s a cardiologist” bumpersticker), but more importantly, free health services (on speed dial, no less). Fortunately for my parents, I was always more than a little interested in medicine, so I didn’t resist their suggestion (except that brief period in my young life where I desperately wanted to pursue a pop-music career). But as much as they have praised doctors, I never understood their constant reluctances to avoid them. My dad once fell off the roof and landed on the hot tub, subsequently dislocating his shoulder. He waited a week until he finally got it looked at. I have scheduled, canceled, and rescheduled my mom’s appointments with the optometrist for over a year now. A few days before each appointment, her eyesight is miraculously better, and the services are no longer needed. A few days after that, she’s “practically blind.”

On rare occasions where my parents found themselves in absolute need of authoritative care, I have accompanied them to a wide range of awkward and often humiliating specialties: gynecologists, urologists, colonoscopies, and questions about sexual activity (Oh. My. God.). I would sit in the room, always facing the wall, my back to whatever body part was being examined, and dutifully translate languages as calmly as I could (easy to do now, not so much when I was eleven). Don’t get me wrong here – I’m perfectly fine with naked body parts – I’ve seen plenty of penises and vaginas (err, I mean in a clinical setting). Blood does not make me squeamish in the tiniest bit (my roommate and I used to watch surgeries on TLC during dinner). But it’s a whole different story when it’s your mother or father’s urethra you’re talking so candidly to the doctor about.

I always advocate preventive care as being better (and cheaper) than treatment, and though I have yet to receive my MD-club card, I’d say all physicians would agree. But active prevention takes diligence –healthy diets, consistent exercise, and regular checkups. Sounds easy enough, but for those without health insurance or the funds to do so, a single routine visit is the difference in paying the utility bills on time. When you compare all the other necessities, health maintenance will always take a backseat. We tap into our “I’m not even sick, so why should I bother?” mentality, or convince ourselves that it’ll go away on its own.

I think part of the reason (and the problem) some people can be hesitant to visit the good ol’ doctor while others are trigger-happy is because it just seems like too much work. What’s covered by insurance? What isn’t? Well, what if you don’t have any at all? There seems to be so many different channels you must barrel through before you get your answers, and even then it’s murky at best. And it’s never just the doctor who’s holding your life in her/his hands… it’s also the coordinators, the interns, even the operator. You call the main office to be greeted by a snooty and clueless receptionist who puts you on hold. You’re then transferred to no less than three different divisions, ultimately landing at a voice mail of so and so, who is currently away from his desk or assisting other customers. Often times, you are left at the mercy of those without the medical degree but with power and control regardless.

I’ve been frustrated and inspired by both sides medical bureaucracy. I’ve witnessed some pretty epic blowouts between desperate and weary patients at the hospital, arguing with the health care representative with stacks of paperwork in their hands. It didn’t take much eavesdropping to understand what the frustration was about (or to take a side). When I go to have a prescription filled and the bill ends up being higher than expected (even with the insurance), I know I’m almost never going to get a satisfactory answer from either the pharmacy nor insurance company. Sometimes, the diplomacy of healthcare is enough to scare whatever disease out of your body.

But like I said, I’ve also been really appreciative of those who understand the significance of their jobs as something more than just answering phones and looking up policy. I recently had to schedule a blood test for both my parents, something that should have been fairly uncomplicated (with a doctor’s request). But because of one complication after another, it took almost three hours to get everything straightened out. I spoke to the coordinator of the schedule, an efficacious woman who remained patient, resourceful, and personable during each of my seven calls. Experience taught me that when someone in management tells you that they will call you “as soon as they can”, it meant hours, if not days. But she returned my calls before I could begin to stress out, even calling to confirm she received the fax I had sent. She did not know me, and she did not know or question whether or not this blood test was urgent. Still, she handled it as efficiently and professionally as it could have possibly been, and for that, Mary in scheduling, I was truly grateful.

And that’s the scariest part about healthcare, isn’t it? You’re almost completely dependent on the word and work of those who are otherwise strangers, believing in their expertise and efficiency. You have to trust that the doctor you’re speaking to is more than competent, that the labs didn’t screw up the test results, that it really is a mild case of food poisoning and nothing more serious. A blood test isn’t just a blood test when an entire family with a history of high cholesterol is concerned – it’s not just results or answers, but a remedy to enormous emotional (and often times, physical) exhaustion. Squeezing in appointments, fast-tracking applications, or looking for discounts or exceptions aren’t just favors you’re doing for the person on the other end – they’re the things people depend on. They’re the differences between whether or not an annual breast or prostate exam occurs, and whether a rash gets treated or left to “hopefully go away on its own”.

The human body is an enigma, a temperamental and stubborn blob of questions, concerns, and fears. And with the seemingly endless ways we can intentionally or unintentionally screw it up, the last thing you want to worry about is whether or not you can fix it when it’s broken. It doesn’t matter if you’re an overprotective parent, a 54-year-old melodramatic Korean woman, or a resilient tough guy – fear (of either needles or the bill), hesitation, and inconvenience should never be reasons to avoid the doctor when you think you need the consult. However, acceptable reasons include irrationality – use your brain: you probably don’t have polio.

Probably.

Ki, Honie, and I got real lucky in that my dad has always been a music aficionado. And for a man who forgets if he’s checked the mail or not on a daily basis, he can recollect his favorite music with impressive detail: the year a song was a hit, the most popular bands, the most obscure one-hit-wonders. After reciting the lyrics of a song he hasn’t heard in twenty years, he can spit out the singer in a Eureka moment. He’s told us about his first introduction to American music, hearing Patti Page and The Platters on a tiny radio, falling in love with it immediately. As a young man, he spent every spare cent he could mangle up to buy records, compassing a collection that if he had kept today, could make any vintage-loving hipster jealous.

He not only listened to the music, but lived within the times; dressed like a Beatle (shaggy bowl-cut and all), grew a fro during the days of ABBA and donned a matching, all-denim bell-bottom suit with the BeeGees (yes, there’s photographic evidence). There was a long period in his life where his hair touched his shoulders and a mustache that could give Freddie Mercury’s a run for his money. There’s an old passport photo where he was channeling his inner Lionel Richie so devoutly, it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if it accidentally caught on fire.

There’s an entire photo album chronicling the changes in popular music, evidenced by the ever-adaptive, correlating fashion choices. And even when we’re pulling our faces at his suede-collar jackets and busy face palming at his copies of Michael Bolton and Wham!, he looks over them fondly, without a morsel of regret or shame. I’ve asked him what his most embarrassing CD is and he only frowned, saying, “I don’t own any of those. I’ve never owned bad music.”

I’ve researched and revisited my roots; the days when CCR, Earth, Wind & Fire, and James Taylor were on constant rotation. With my dad as the DJ, Ki and I grew up appreciating the Everly Brothers, the Mamas and the Papas, Glen Campbell, the Eagles, even Rod Stewart. It’s because of my dad and his eclectic taste that Honie knows who Chubby Checker or Three Dog Night or Carly Simon is. Variety is the reason Honie knows the words to “Waterloo” and “Tennessee Waltz” just as well as “Party in the USA” and “Use Somebody.” Do you know how many 12-year-olds know who Ann Margaret is?

Stashed somewhere are a small collection of my own CD’s, some I hope never see the light of day (I kid you not, there’s a copy of Aqua somewhere in this house). I’ll tell you right now that I was thirteen when boyband fever took over the world, and I was not immune to their All-American looks, provocative choreography, and songs about never breaking my heart. Yes, I screamed and jumped like a rabid moron at the concerts, and spent a lot of time plotting out the details of the chance meeting where I’d become their muse (because boybands were sensitive, and looked past the training bra, braces, and glasses that took up half my face).

When they started to lose their appeal (nothing shatters the illusion more than when the boys have five o’clock shadows, lose their cornrows, and trade in their matching jumpsuits for sensible loafers), I entered the consciously-aware and painfully ironic stage of my life, listening to an assload of punk rock while looking like a page out of the J. Crew catalog. I had the welcome-to-the-OC-biatch emo phase (let’s just say, there was a lot of Dashboard Confessional happening in my life) for the better part of my late high school years. I dipped my toes in the Lilith Fair crowd, and had a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it stint with techno. I dabbled in country, experimented with indie rock, and was really, really into Notorious B.I.G. for a good long while (you haven’t seen gangster until you hear a 90-lb Asian girl spit out “Big Poppa” in her Abercrombies).

I don’t know where and when it happened, but somewhere along all the different wigs I tried on, I realized I didn’t have to stick with just one. I could combine Dixie Chicks, The Temptations, and Jay-Z into one playlist. Tchaikovsky and the soundtrack to Hairspray didn’t have to avoid each other. Listening to a lot of Damien Rice and Ray Lamontagne didn’t have to have a greater reason than being good study music. Mos Def could be just as poetic as Debussy, Lady Gaga was made for getting ready for a night out, and on a rainy afternoon at a coffee shop, they didn’t call it Norah Jones-ing for nothing. Sometimes, Rage Against the Machine blaring in your ears is just what you need for that last quarter-mile uphill. Jackson 5 is age-proof, and it’s almost never a bad time for Otis Redding.

So as painful as it is to admit that I have a Chumbawumba CD stashed somewhere, I’m glad it is, to remind me of who I was, and how far I’ve evolved. Those posters that I can’t bring myself to throw away are a reminder of a time when I didn’t feel any restrictions, when daydreams never seemed like a waste of time. There are things you outgrow, like Rainbow Brite, tweezer-happy eyebrows, and Cosmopolitan (to my credit, I never once took those Make-Yourself-Irresistible articles seriously), but you keep them with you, tucked away on the top shelf for whenever you feel like traveling down nostalgia lane. There was a time I rocked the lowest of low-riding jeans (I’m talking how-are-you-wearing-underwear low) to school dances, where I would do my best to get my groove-thang on to Ginuwine and Nelly. Songs by Jodeci and Savage Garden became anthems for those precocious enough to have boyfriends and girlfriends, while the rest of us patiently waited our turns for when we could – however briefly- understand the meaning of “Truly, Madly, Deeply”, the best way a 14-year-old knew how.

If my dad’s collection is any proof at all, music can transcend genres, cohabit peacefully and beautifully. Music should be celebrated with the memories it’s associated with, not oppressed by the fear of embarrassment. And if my dad is unashamed of his Styx collection, who am I to be hiding my copy of Big Willie Style? To my dad and to me, music is like a scar (but without the skin deformation); they are reminders of the moments and stages of our lives that may or may not have been monumental, but exceptional in their contributions to our character. They may cause momentary discomfort and embarrassment, but they let you reminisce about a time when you were just as bit careless as you were carefree, a time when looking back now, weren’t nearly as bad as you thought them to be.

That’s why I hold my tongue when Honie mentions Drake or Owl City or some homeless-looking chick who spells her name with a $. She will build her own musical repertoire, one that will cause her to cringe at a point in her life. She will collect and trade the tracks in her life as often as required by her burgeoning personality. She’ll be influenced by her friends, her rebellion, and her permanent role as a daddy’s girl. And like my dad’s classical collection, there will be a multitude of volumes, versions, and special editions.

When it comes to the soundtrack of our lives, we’re constantly adding and deleting. But we need to do it without a sense of irony, without contemplation, without apology, without pretentiousness, without anyone’s approval but our own. We’re entitled to that – to add a little disco, a little rock, a little power ballad whenever we see fit. Just get jiggy wit it.

Na-na-na-na-na-nana-na.