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Why I’m Not Apologizing for My Taste in Music
You know, there’s a part of me that feels like my inner teenager is rolling her eyes at my current music choices, but honestly, I’m not ashamed. Once upon a time, music was everything. I rocked velvet chokers, dark nail polish, and styled my hair into two little buns on top of my head, channeling my inner cat. That girl would be shocked to see me today, a mom driving her kid to swim lessons while blasting the Top 40 stations like it’s no big deal.
Back in the day, I could recite every lyric from The Smiths and had them plastered on my Trapper Keeper. Now? I sing along to Rihanna and Maroon 5 without a shred of irony. Morrissey would probably disown me if he knew how far I’d fallen from my once-pretentious musical roots.
Music used to define my identity. In high school, we selected our lunch tables based on our favorite bands. There was no way I’d sit at the Metallica or country music tables. I was the cool kid at the Jane’s Addiction table, looking down at those who liked Paula Abdul or Bobby Brown. How could they not appreciate the genius of Robert Smith?
In my twenties, I was just as picky. Bad taste in music was a deal-breaker for dating. Seriously, if a guy was into Hootie and the Blowfish, I was out. It was a hard no. My future partner had to be a fan of “Paul’s Boutique” Beastie Boys—not the party anthem stuff. There was a line, and I was standing firm.
Looking back, it’s wild to think I cared so much about these things. I used to be all about college radio—the obscure stations that barely grazed the FM dial. Now, my radio is permanently tuned to the Top 40, and I honestly can’t remember if there’s even a college station anymore. Do those still exist, or are they just a relic of the ’90s?
I’m so out of the loop that I’ve only recently started appreciating Nirvana, a band I once dismissed as too mainstream. Back then, I was all about Sonic Youth.
Eventually, music stopped being my defining trait. I tried to stay current, not wanting to let my younger self down, but let’s be real—I was already in capri pants and Keds. The next step was admitting my love for Shakira—and, yes, even J. Lo! Still, I sometimes crave that old-school cool. I attempted to catch this year’s Coachella on TV, but I didn’t recognize any of the artists, and then my kid wanted Disney Junior, so that was that. The last album I bought was Arcade Fire’s The Suburbs, and I can’t even recall the last time I listened to it.
It seems that this is a rite of passage into mom life. We all know that moms have notoriously questionable music taste. I remember my own mother jamming to Basia on her treadmill while I cringed. Now, the tables have turned, and it’s my turn to be the “uncool” one.
But the truth is, at 41, I don’t care about being cool like I did at 21. I’ve found musical freedom and am comfortable with who I am. I don’t need a curated playlist to define my life anymore. I’ve learned that what kind of music someone enjoys doesn’t really say much about their character. I’m too busy with the important stuff to worry about music snobs. Heck, I’ve even discovered a few country songs that I genuinely enjoy. Take that, teenage me!
So, as I dive back into my Taylor Swift playlist, I might just kick back to some classic ‘70s yacht rock next. Christopher Cross, here I come!
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Summary:
This article reflects on the evolution of music taste over the years, highlighting the transition from identity-defining music preferences in youth to a more liberated appreciation of various genres in adulthood. The author embraces this change, shedding the need for musical snobbery and recognizing that personal growth often leads to a broader acceptance of different musical styles.