Rihanna & This Heart "Work"
I don’t normally blog about things so soon after they happen, but sometimes a song like Rihanna’s “Work” will follow you and your homie for an entire night.
The DJ will play it multiple times at the after-party, it will come on once or twice in two different Ubers, and again at your last stop of the evening, the Plaid Pantry, where you buy Cheddar & Sour Cream Ruffles–which you have not done since your mid-twenties! But, you were out on a Saturday night, which doesn’t really happen anymore, and you and your friend Phillip are mascaraed and matching in chic black, and you’re three glasses of wine tipsy.
You probably know a thing or two about heartbreak. You also know that sitting at home with only your thoughts in a fuzzy night robe is the last thing you should do. So you get dolled up (sort of). You line up a few events for the night. As the evening progresses, Rihanna’s nasally “work, work, work, work, work” plays enough times that it starts to feel like it was made exclusively for you and your homie; the auditory landscape of your emotional lives. This, of course, is not true. Because songs like “Work” get played and played-out over the course of months, and this coincidence is just an example of pop-culture’s insipid power. So. Sang it, Rihanna:
Work, work, work, work, work, work He said me haffi Work, work, work, work, work, work! He see me do me Dirt, dirt, dirt, dirt, dirt, dirt! So me put in Work, work, work, work, work, work When you ah gon' Learn, learn, learn, learn, learn Meh nuh care if him Hurt, hurt, hurt, hurt, hurting
Feeling like you’ve been used
It’s hard to let go
Taking it slow
Needing to talk about it
Nothing earth-shattering. A catchy chorus, something emotionally buzzy and relateable. When you listen to the song, the lyrics could be up for interpretation (for phonetic-translation go to Metro Lyrics), but then again, isn’t music just sound anyways? Isn’t babel full of the potential of meaning? Isn’t life?
In the first draft of this piece, I walked through the evening’s details, chronologically. With creative license and hyperbole, I infused meaning into plain moments: like how I told my friend, Elaine, about my breakup at the water cooler, filling tiny dixie cups one after the other – thirsty – in the 80 degree heat.
None, none, of these details did anything to communicate what was really happening. What is true, is that I love someone. The break up was sudden. I’m still in love with him. There are reasonable reasons why we shouldn’t be together. I repeat his words, “...we’re just at different points in our lives…” And I know, objectively, that my relationship was victim to love’s ultimate nemesis: timing.
What I can write about, is how life is often unromantically, un-poetically synced. How much work (cue Rihanna) it is to carry heartbreak around with you as you move about the world, when you catch-up with friends, or you work to retain your charm with acquaintances and the new people you meet. People carry the weight of heartbreak in all kinds of ways: a severed mother/daughter relationship as Mother’s Day fast approaches, a divorce, a death, trying to make a long-distant relationship work, a parent who is kept from their kids, kids who are kept from their father, friendships that just grow apart, a love that is no longer.
Love alone does not heal all wounds. Love and work (cue Rihanna) might be able to, and sometimes even with work (cue Rihanna) and talking through (preach Rihanna), it still doesn’t pan out.
I’ve been talking about the breakup in rational, even tones – I did all my private sobbing, and my silent, lip-trembling, public-crying the first week and a half. When I tell people, I say, “I still love him, I’m really sad...but I think he’s right. We’re at different points in our lives.” It’s a script we’ve all heard. And because it’s so common, it’s easy to repeat like a mantra–and there is in fact an objective truth to the reason why we end