True fact: I really loved The Beach Boys when I was about, oh, 10-12 years old. This was before VH1’s “Behind the Music” ruined the golden glow that was once possible to project onto the artists whom we loved, and it was much before I knew anything about the correlation between musicians and drug use, depression, and having in general a propensity towards skankitude. I was on the precipice of finding this out, as I was about to turn 13 and 14, that magical age where you realize that everything sucks and everything you thought about the world was if not exactly a lie, was a very tendentious and pointed teaching; that your whole entire life the adults around you have at best been, as Dickinson said telling the truth. . . but telling it slant.
If I were to wonder why I loved the love songs especially at that age where one hasn’t experienced it yet, but has read about it and been bombarded with the promises of what it is to be from every possible media outlet, I can only guess that I liked the following things: First, the emotive outpouring on the part of the male. Sadly, I was to learn that while some boys do in fact sing things like that, very few will actually say things like that. Ever. I also loved the “one dayish-ness” and the innocence of the whole thing. One day this will happen, and I want it too.
Did my twelve-year-old self think that I would be unmarried at 29? No. Sometimes I feel like that’s a bad thing, and that my 12-year-old self would have been right to have write me off as a spinster if she could have seen me now, I have come to realize that there’s still a golden glow of “one day” waiting for me. Besides, what did that version of myself know anyway? At 12, she thought Bryan Adams was, like, hot.