A Little Bit Harmful to Me

I went to see Rufus Wainwright perform at the Royal Oak Music Theater Saturday night. Such a haunting voice. Half way through the concert, I realized my face was frozen in the "on the verge of tears" expression. He saved Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk for last. The crowd went crazy.

There's something about guilty pleasures that everyone can get on board with. Right?

It seems like such a light song, given the title. But this verse gets to me, on a much deeper level.

"And then there's those other things. . .which for several reasons we won't mention. . . everything about them is a little bit stranger. . . a little bit harder. . . a little bit deadly. . ."

I was reading Peterman's Eye yesterday about a woman who just celebrated her 112th birthday. The sentiment everyone expressed about her was that she loves the simple life. And, honestly, I had nothing to say other than, "how sad." So I said nothing. If after 112 years, the resounding sentiment of my life is "simplicity," I would die. No pun intended.

And it's not that I don't love the simple things, but they don't FEEL simple to me. They feel huge—and they overwhelm me. And when I feel that way and I look around and see everyone else enjoying things with banal smiles on their faces, it unnerves me. It makes me want to shake them and wake them up.

Nobody will ever say that I "enjoyed the simple life." They're more likely to say, "life was never simple when she was around." And maybe that's not a compliment. And I'm not likely to live to 112. But that's okay.

I like intensity. I like guilty pleasures, even "those other things. . .which for several reasons we won't mention. . ."

So, in the words of the haunting Rufus Wainwright,

"Please be kind if I'm a mess. . . Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk."

Play this song. And then tell me your two guiltiest pleasures. Don't make me come over and shake you out of your banality. Because I will.