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Let’s face it. We all do it. We may not admit to it in the intense light of day or even to our best friends, but we’ve all done it. We’ve all found ourselves listening to a song we never liked or watching a movie we couldn’t stand or a TV show we swore we’d never turn on, because someone we’re dating—and who we really like—likes it.
I freely admit that I once sat in a car with a boy and listened to an entire Kenny Chesney song. It should be noted that this boy was flat out gorgeous and that I do not care for country music.
The boy’s name was Brian and I had loved him from afar for months and months. I had loved him from so very “afar” that I had no idea that he liked country music. If I had known this, I’m fairly certain my enormous, all-consuming crush would have withered. But I was 18 and in college and he was 19 and had dark hair and the lightest blue eyes and his ass looked awesome in a pair of jeans. I spent three months sitting in Math class staring at the back of his perfect head trying to telepathically convince him that I was the woman of his dreams. Coincidentally I had also developed a convenient belief in a god who was super interested in my sex life and might be listening when I said, “Dear God, Brian is so amazing, please make him ask me out”.
It was the start of winter break when he finally asked me out (which of the above-mentioned techniques worked, I’ll never know). Fast forward to date night and Brian pulls up in front of my house in his tiny Honda CRX hatchback, which in and of itself was pretty funny because Brian was 6’5” and when he climbed out, he resembled an incredibly handsome giant exiting a clown car. But it wasn’t until we were headed down the road to dinner that my crush on Brian began to hit some bumps. As he drove us to some exciting dinner spot (I believe he had chosen Red Robin because he was such a romantic) we hit a brief pause in our conversation. At that moment Brian reached for the radio and cranked the volume, “Oh this is one of my favorite songs!” And a sudden burst of twangy guitar chords and nasally wails about women and trucks hit my sensitive little eardrums. I was trapped in a tiny car with a giant man and blaring country music. In my head I was saying, He better be fucking kidding me. Out loud I said nothing, but I stared at him for the entirety of the song, weighing his attractiveness against the unpleasant noise emanating from his stereo. His words, “…this is one of my favorite songs …” repeated in my head. And like a taunt, I could hear fate saying, “Oh you can have this Adonis, this beautiful specimen of manhood, but you’ll be doomed to an eternity of country and western… and it’s just a matter of time before he buys you a cowboy hat and takes you line dancin’… where you’ll meet girls named Tanya and Stacey who say “WooHoo, heck yeah!” and think Dwight Yoakam was “kinda hot in that movie about the retard.”
Suffice to say that Brian turned out to be a HUGE country music fan and while I listen to everything from heavy metal to techno to classical, somehow I just never really got into country (Okay, I do enjoy some Johnny Cash or Patsy Cline, but that didn’t happen until years later). And when I tried to like country music—“tried” is a strong word—it just never really worked. Whenever I heard tunes about cowboy troubles, I felt incredibly, uncomfortably, white. I mean, I am pretty pale, but that music made me feel like some freakish creature that lives in a cave and then comes out to experience sunshine for the first time and bursts into flames. Yes, basically, country music makes me feel like a redneck vampire.
So musically speaking, Brian and I had nothing in common. As I sat there staring into his beautiful blue eyes, I wondered if I could learn to tolerate country music for our love. For a moment, when he smiled at me and took my hand across the dinner table I thought, Yeah I could totally repress the impulse to vomit at the sound of twang if I had too. Then we got back into the car and I heard it again. I gagged a little and I came to the harsh realization, No. No I can’t.
The moral of the story is, to thy own self be true. If you don’t generally care for something, but your date loves it, think about the consequences. Because in the end, you not only have to live with yourself, but you also have to live with the other person’s terrible, awful taste. And it’s a fine line between being open-minded and being a total sell-out just to get some ass.