I survived my ten-year high school reunion, my thirtieth birthday, and even the Backstreet Boys’ twentieth anniversary.
But I couldn’t survive Taylor Swift.
Despite our obvious mutual affection for each other, Taylor has dealt me a crippling blow.
She has made me feel old.
Whether it is due to my questionable collection of ‘80s cartoon t-shirts, the fact that I still keep in touch with hordes of high school friends, or just plain ole’ denial, I usually feel pretty young. But when Taylor sings about the joys and fabulousness of being 22 (Zack Morris aside: Best. Song. Ever.), it makes me feel all “how about kids these days with their terrible grammar and constant texting,” “*NSYNC was eight million times better than One Direction,” and “what the heck is Tumblr?!” kinds of old.
So, Taylor, I love you, LOTS, but these “22” lyrics are killing me:
“It feels like a perfect night for breakfast at midnight.”
Nope. Gotta wake up and take the dog out in six hours. And then water the plants.
“It feels like a perfect night to fall in love with strangers.”
Nope. Got married eight years ago.
“Tonight’s the night we’ll forget about the deadlines.”
Nope. Got a job and the mortgage isn’t gonna pay itself.
In short, Taylor, you’re awesome (as I told you in all those letters). However, you’re kind of unawesome too for making me realize that I haven’t rocked a Hypercolor shirt (these need to come back) or put down some Ecto Cooler Hi-Ci in about 100 years. Alas, thanks for teaching me the important lesson to appreciate every second of life, as it seems to be passing by ever so swiftly. Oh, and thanks for filling the divalicious void in my life while Britney, Katy, and Gaga are busy piecing their lives back together (and while Ke$ha still scares me a bit too much).
Peace out, youth. We had a good run.