Did you hear that woman driving down Green Valley Parkway the other day belting out "I'm all out of love, I'm so lost with ouuuuut you, I know you were right, belieeeeving for so long"?
Yeah, that was me. Backtrack two years to the Air Supply concert, when a young woman's stridently held belief that one of the singers is a woman was shattered by their undeniable maleness (note I did not say masculinity.) Yep, that was me, too. Want rationalization? Justification? Something? People with good taste tend to understand that Air Supply is sentimental fluff. I understand it and accept it, too. And when you people with your good taste aren't around, I revel in it.
Then there are the Lifetime marathons. The bouts are best enjoyed in sickness, or rain, or extreme heat or boredom or hunger or satiety, awake or sleepy. There really doesn't have to be a proper mood to watch the trials and tribulations of Meredith Baxter or Melissa Gilbert or Marky Post, as they discover that their own worst enemy is actually themselves. These are bad, bad movies. There will be tears, running mascara, one-dimensional characters and predictable endings. And wouldn't an Air Supply score just add to its richness?
My guilty pleasures are many. My need to read anything and everything about Mary Kate and Ashley, and their ability (along with Uncle Jesse, of course, and Joey and Danny and DJ and little Steph) to bring tears to my eyes in reruns of Full House. (OK, I was on heavy pain medication the last time I cried for that show, but it still counts). The joy brought by a steaming heap of macaroni and cheese with pickles and hot sauce on Saltine crackers—foodstuffs that shouldn't be on the same plate, much less the same mouthful, but somehow work miraculously well together. Ranch dressing on pizza. Ketchup. Jesus accessories. Maeve Binchy novels. An occasional cigarette. Kenny Rogers. Planning my schedule around America's Next Top Model. Giving my male cats female names (Susan and Carol Anne). Watching Blind Date. Getting purely giddy at the prospect of watching Blind Date Uncensored. Velveeta. The list goes on, and the psychological explanations are, likely, many. But maybe there's another guilty pleasure in not analyzing, just accepting.