Ode to Britney. That's right: Britney.

You know how I know I’m growing up?

I don’t convulse or throw-up-in-my-mouth-a-little at the thought of Justin Timberlake.

Now, wait – before you write me off – it does make sense. Surely, a lot of people know they’re growing up when they get over silly pop culture, but I wasn’t so much like a lot of people when it came to pop signifiers of my teen-thru-college years. I was the one who was ‘rebellious’; who scoffed at teen idol queens because everyone else squeaked over them. And a lot of that was for spite’s sake, I suppose.

I shrugged at iPods; I was turned off by Banana Republic. I made fun of Britney Spears even though deep down I appreciated her sex appeal and I daresay some of her music (whether she’s actually singing or not).

I laughed in the face of cheesy pop culture, even though maybe somewhere I wondered what I was missing.

But now I recognize that it’s ok to enjoy cheesey pop once in a while. I never had a problem admitting that I dance in front of my mirror in my underwear to the radio; but now I realize it’s ok to admit that the songs playing were by Britney, Christina, 40-year-old Madonna and whoever else. It’s ok to do a double-take when I see pictures of Lindsay Lohan as a cutter or Gwen Stefani pregnant.

These days, I’m older and wiser and I read pop gossip responsibley (and not often). And if I buy an article of clothing because it makes me feel like I could feel as sexy as a celebrity looks, I’m not being a fool. I’m just enjoying pop capatilism sometimes. Isn’t that my American-born right?

…Or maybe this is all due to the fact that I’m part-Israeli now, and that makes me a pop culture-trendy American wannabe?

Oh, well. Either way. Pass the US Magazine. And turn up the radio, please. Hit me, Britney, one more time.






Whadya got: