John Mayer once said that there is no such thing as a guilty pleasure. I couldn’t agree more. I don’t feel guilty about my pleasures. I love Eggo Waffles, The Real Housewives of New York City and banana-flavored Tootsie Roll Pops. I couldn’t care if you think less of me because of my slight obsession with the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade. I like what I like and I don’t need a reason.
However, of all the waffles and parade floats in the world, nothing should be more embarrassing than the saved stations on my Pandora account. This occurred to me while preparing for a summer barbecue. As I teed up music, I realized that folks would probably scoff over their steak tips at Michael Bolton’s “Soul Provider.”
In fact, very few of my music choices would suffice for the masses. Sure, I could play a little Lady Gaga and Brad Paisley, but for the most part, my music was a party-foul. After all, my Pandora stations are as follows:
Miami Sound Machine Radio
Debbie Gibson Radio
Seth McFarland Holiday Radio
Lisa Loeb Children’s Radio
Jon Secada Radio
Celine Dion Radio
Jimmy Buffet Radio
I won’t apologize for loving Only In My Dreams, but I also didn’t want my guests to suffer through their ice cream sundaes. So, I borrowed my husband’s music. I chose safe, party options. We listened to lots of Bob Marley, Zac Brown and One Republic. Everyone bobbed their head along with the background beat. The party was a success.
But the second everyone left, I blasted Celine’s “All By Myself.” I washed dishes while singing out my heart.