When The Morning Comes

I’ve never been much for mornings. In the same vein, I’ve never been much for morning shows, either. They’re typically overly-cheery and vapid, the audio equivalent of reading a Cosmo magazine or eating a powdered doughnut. Sugary but insubstantial.

But now that I have a grown-up job, I’ve also gained a grown-up commute. I’m held captive in my car for 40 minutes each way. There’s no means of escape. That’s 80 full minutes every day-- oftentimes more; this is Atlanta, after all—just me, alone with my thoughts and the radio.

At first, I listened to music on my iPod like I always have, but with two 30-45 minute drives a day coupled with our headphone-friendly work environment, I’m honestly all music-ed out. I have an arsenal of podcasts for the long afternoons, but for that drive into work, morning radio is almost unavoidable. Now nearly every morning, I find myself inexplicably tuned into The Bert Show on Q100.

I’ve written before about my questionable taste in music, but you should know that Q100 (“All the hits,” they promise joyfully) is not my radio station of choice. If it’s not Beiber, it’s Usher. If it’s not Usher, it’s that one Pink song where she drinks a lot. I really just don’t dig this stuff. So why do I find myself unable to touch that dial?

Something keeps me coming back. Some voodoo radio witchcraft has made me actively listen to this show. I know these peoples’ names. I am interested in what they have to say. Only I’m not! I can’t be! Why do I keep listening when I know all they’re going to talk about is the best Christmas present to buy for your “hubby” and listeners who have accidentally sexted their bosses and grandmothers? Why can’t I stop listening??

I know why. Stockholm syndrome. I’ve developed an emotional attachment to my captors, and it’s not pretty.

Is there some kind of 12-step program for this?