I know I risk being extremely unpopular by saying this but...okay, here goes...
I am sick of Adele.
Yes, she is very talented. Yes, she has a great voice. Yes, she can sing her lungs off like no one's business. Yes, she is on every radio station all the time every day. Yes, her songs blast through the sound system at the mall, the grocery store, the local restaurant, every car at my daughters' school at pick-up and drop off. Yes, my children warble out her lyrics and will yell at me if I attempt to change the station. Yes, a car drove by my house just now and I can hear the all too familiar tune about setting fire to the rain. Yes, I'm having a hard time visualizing this on-fire rain. Yes, I know I shouldn't be so literal, but I keep seeing the rain dousing the flames instead of the other way around. Yes, I'm choking on all the smoke.
Yes, I get it. Adele has had her heart broken. She has loved and lost and is able to express her emotions through her lyrics. In all her songs. Every. Single. Song. Every note drips of excruciating pain.
Yes, most of us can relate to Adele—that's why her '21' album continues to break records all over the world. That's why its three singles, "Rolling in the Deep," "Someone Like You," and "Set Fire to the Rain," became worldwide-number one hits. That's why last year she sold 6.7 million albums in the U.S.—-more than Justin Bieber and Lady Gaga combined. That's why at the Grammy Awards last month, Adele won best album—her sixth award out of six nominations.
By now most people who listen to the radio or watch television or read magazines or have a pulse know the story. The wrenching lyrics were written shortly after a failed year-long romance. She has referred to her ex as "the love of my life." (And better to have loved and lost than to have never made millions at all). She told People magazine last year, "That was probably the lowest point of my life." Adding, "I locked myself in my house for nine months drinking four bottles of wine a night."
Before you tell me I'm a hater, I admit the problem is me. Basking in the pain of heartbreak is a luxury for the young (or celebrities like Demi Moore). For the rest of us, we feel pain but we can't bask in it. We don't know how to bask anymore. I can't even remember the last time I basked, but I'm sure it was before kids.
Instead, we non-baskers make dinner and check homework and worry about our children, our aging parents, our spouseless moms or dads, the economy, the bills. We don't lock ourselves in a house and drink four bottles of wine a night. And if we did, we'd have more troubles to sing about—we'd be dead or divorced or child protective services would take our kids or we'd be in jail or the moms in the carpool lane would shoot us very dirty looks when we'd swerve into the lot to pick up our kids, still buzzed and probably not fully clothed.
Maybe I'm alone in this, but I don't want to hear the sound of searing pain in someone's voice—especially someone I don't know. There's enough searing pain in life, I don't want to experience it vicariously—especially when I am in the car alone, looking to belt out some lyrics while I sing on a stage in front of an adoring audience that exists only in my head ("And now, the incomparable Irene Zutell will perform Bad Girls by Donna Summer").
Adele takes me off that stage and into a dimly lit pub where I swill pitchers of warm beer and then curl up in the fetal position and rock back and forth while sucking my thumb.
I don't want to go to that pub. I don't want to roll in the deep. I don't want to turn up out of the blue uninvited (although after four bottles of wine, it's very possible). Most of all, I don't want to find someone like you—because you're a jerk. I want someone who makes me laugh.
Adele has a new boyfriend. I hope she's happy and in love and her next album reflects those emotions. But until then, I'd dust off my Donna Summer CD and sing about Bad Girls yeah. See them out on the street at night. Walking.
Toot. Toot. Beep. Beep.