an ode to taylor swift and growing up

I remember it all too well.  I remember sitting on my yellow duvet with a bowl of lucky charms when "Lover" came out. I had to wait 10 minutes for my ancient MacBook Pro hand-me-down to boot up and open Spotify before I could hit play. I remember being 11 years old and hiding my Kindle Fire under my pillow while I listened to the "Speak Now" album to fall asleep each night. I remember listening to " reputation" with my friend Ally the day it came out. We were on our way back from Barnes and Noble, in the back of her mom's car. She got in trouble for downloading it without asking. I remember waking up to 50 text notifications telling me Taylor Swift surprise-dropped "folklore" in the middle of the night. I thought I was still dreaming, because no way! I remember being maybe 7 years old, and my babysitter asking me if I wanted to listen to country or pop on the radio. "Which one is Taylor Swift?" I said. They didn't play Taylor, and it was that day I realized I was not a fan of country music. I knew all the theories, like how there were five holes in the fence. I could tell you how many boyfriends she's had, which songs are in fact not about boyfriends at all, what her cat's names are, what the secret sessions are, or any other tiny Taylor trivia you would like to know. 

But now she's number one in the world, and I don't know how I feel. 100 million Spotify listeners, merch everywhere you go, can't turn on the radio without hearing the voice of a desperate radio host name dropping her. Four years ago, this would have been my dream, to see her get the recognition she deserves and to have someone to share my passions with. But present day that's not quite the case. Instead, I get deeply annoyed when all people want to talk about is Taylor Swift. I would likely be convicted guilty of swiftie-on-swiftie crime. I don't really care for her boyfriend or the easter eggs or the music videos like I used to. Perhaps this stems from the fact I've always been a bit of a gatekeeper. It's probably some dormant primal instinct that we no longer have no use for. I grew up on this music, I listened to these songs 24/7. I listened to "Mean" when mean girls in middle school were making me feel like dirt. I listen to it now for the same reason, because sometimes they never grow up. Now the mean girls love "Mean", and they don't even know it's about them. Truthfully, it does sting a little bit.

And still it goes a bit beyond the bitterness. There's a song by Lorde where she sings, "all the music you loved at 16 you'll grow out of." The first time I listened to that I was in fact, 16. And I thought, that's not happening, I'll always love Taylor Swift. But at 18, I have a feeling she may be right. The ugly truth is I hate to outgrow things. I've outgrown many, many things in the past several years. Friends, clothes, music. And you'd think it's simple. You don't fit into a pair of jeans anymore, so you donate them and buy a new pair. But we don't do that, because to outgrow something doesn't quite eliminate our love for it. We keep the jeans in the back of our closet, hoping one day we can squeeze back into them. Maybe they'll work with an oversized sweater, or if we don't eat anything today. Maybe you can still be friends with her, for the sake of the friend group. Maybe if I listen to "Getaway Car" one more time, I'll be 12 and worrying about Hollister skinny jeans and Ugg Boots rather than if the world is ending. It's devastatingly bittersweet, this growing up. It just keeps coming and coming, and the songs keep replaying over and over and over as I get older and older and older. And as they play, it takes me longer to recall the memory associated with it. And maybe one day it'll be just a song. That is the fear that lingers in the silence between tracks. But then "New Years Day" starts to play. And as of now, I can still remember singing it on karaoke in my grandparent's basement on New Years Eve, and it is not too far removed to be loved.