Where Angela runs around these here parts while listening to her husband’s playlist

Running with music is paramount to my ability to make it through my runs some days. On a treadmill I often find myself depending on both music and the close-captioned debate of an open floor plan versus a level backyard on HGTV’s House Hunters. Even in the open air, music is a pounding backdrop for my racing thoughts and slapping feet.

So when my Shuffle ran out of juice the other day, I deftly plucked my husband’s from his desk; I didn’t need to check to know his battery life was safely full – unlike me he keeps track of things like that.

I powered on the tiny music player, uncertain as to how my rhythm would be affected by an unknown playlist. Though my own selections are silly and eclectic each song is specifically chosen and familiar. My feet know how to move to Elvis Presley; my lungs know how to breathe when they hear The Black Eyed Peas.

Tentatively, I began to run, letting the unfamiliar songs seep into my consciousness. Of course there were similarities: Beat It, the first song on which I really understood the idea of a bass line; some White Stripes with their brief, frantic energy; Lady Gaga, whose insidious hooks captured even a reluctant fan. But unexpected notes arose again and again, and I played a game with myself as I ran, listening to each song instead of clicking through to find something that fit my usual routine. Beastie Boys from years and years ago; Eminem in his most angry staccato; The Rolling Stones in all of their phases.

As I listened, my mind drifted.

Our running paces are similar but not the same; the goals we have for our family, our lives, our future are more closely aligned. Shared laughter and dreams wrap us together on our couch at night as the kids sleep; we watch movies, plan vacations, debate future house projects. But like the different threads that run through our song choices, the scenery along our shared path varies. Disney cruises compete with Grand Canyon road trips; renovating the kitchen jostles against making repairs on our garage.

This fall, we’ll run in the same half-marathon. We’ll awaken, leave the warmth of our bed, fasten our bib numbers, and stretch together while we wait for our wave to begin. Then we’ll turn on our music, touch fingertips briefly, and settle into our own paces. The music in our ears will be different as we glide through some miles and struggle through others because even people in love can carve out slightly different races to the same finish line.