I hate Taylor Swift.
Okay, not really, but I pretend to – for my father-in-law. It gave us something to talk about, really, as she shimmied on stage in her blingy flapper-style dress, engineered for shaking. We commiserated in that moment, united against a common enemy, a beautiful — albeit overrated – pop star. We were the haters hate hate hating.
We were united in this.
Pretend is convenient that way. It lets you travel to someone else’s head space and share it with them for a while.
It works in the other direction, too, when you humor a thing you normally dislike. For example, I don’t really care too much for beer. When it comes to drinks, I want something fruity that you could damn well stick an umbrella in or a grandpa drink, whiskey, bourbon – something dark and mysterious that could potentially burn the hell out of you (see also: how I like my men).
But I’ll be damned if I won’t crack open a beer with my friends who like the stuff. Whatever they’re drinking, I’ll try, really give it a chance, choke it down, and refrain from complaining about it, even if I think it’s awful.
Maybe it’s dishonest to pretend, but I can’t fool myself anymore that I won’t occasionally change my mind after trying something on for size. If there’s integrity in sticking with a preference come hell or high water, I’d rather be a scoundrel.