Guilty of Guilty Pleasure

It was a trip to the library that led me into temptation. Much like Eve and that whole apple business I was deceived by the hypnotic glowing eyes, not of a serpent, but of a two-inch thick book. It promised knowledge and entertainment and before I knew what was happening it had lured me into the land of decadence and guilty pleasure.

I'm probably supposed to be ashamed of my nakedness. But I'm not.

Actually, the origins of my downfall can really be traced to Anna. It was she who invited me to go along with her on a trip to the library. She needed to get serious-minded books about Stalin or the Cold War or some other exciting historical moment. That is when I fell prey.

Just as we were ready to check out, I passed a display of new books. There, in living black and white, was a memoir by Cyndi Lauper. THE Cyndi Lauper of 1980s Girls Just Want to Have Fun fame had written the story of her life. How could  I resist?

Like millions of others, I had loved Cyndi during the height of her career. Although I didn't get the feminist message of Girls Just Want to Have Fun at the time, I thought it was a fun song. It wasn't until years later that I understood what she meant by, "Oh Mother dear we're not the fortunate ones..." but that is a different story for a different time.

Anyway, somewhere along the way Cyndi's fame wavered and I went on to pretend to be a grown up and other than occasionally hearing one of her songs I didn't think much about her.

 But then...the book.

I checked it out of the library and the next day a snowstorm conveniently kept me home so I snuggled up in my big red reading chair with one or another of my assortment of lap cats and read all about Cyndi's life. 

She tells a fun story. Irreverent at times, which I loved. Whiny at times, which I found tedious. Throughout the book she referenced less popular songs I wasn't familiar with. So, when I finished reading I decided to look up some of her YouTube videos. One in particular captivated me. Recorded in recent years, she played the dulcimer and sang Time After Time. The song was pretty but what really caught my attention was her hair. Nothing crazy and outrageous, just a cute, flattering and very blond hairstyle.

Now I was truly on the slippery slope.

My next step was to look up photos of Cyndi so that I could get a better look at her hairstyle and color. But somewhere along the way I saw a link to her reality TV show, Still So Unusual and I couldn't resist watching. I was hooked.

This wouldn't be a big deal  except that I have been quite judgemental and condemning of reality TV. I'm not a big TV watcher anyway, but reality TV has always seemed a huge contributor to the downfall of American intelligence. As if the people in those shows are behaving the way they really would if a television camera weren't inches from their face. And I've never quite understood the point of watching toothless hillbillies making moonshine. If I wanted to know about that I'd only have to look up a few distant family members.

Reality TV seemed so pointless.

Okay, fine. I did watch a couple of seasons of American Idol. But that is all. 

Regardless, there I was, watching Cyndi Lauper's seemingly normal husband and son living a nice quiet suburban life while she occasionally drops in like a whirlwind. And I kept watching. Every episode.

I sent a text message to a friend confessing what I had been doing. Maybe it was because I had gotten caught up in the whole electing a Pope thing, I'm not sure, but I needed to tell someone. She called me a freak and then said she had to run, it was time to watch The Young and The Restless and General Hospital. So much for confession.

I'm on the backside of my downfall now, having watched the entire series to date. Maybe, though, I'll be a little less harsh in my opinion of people who invest time in reality TV. I guess we all have to have our guilty pleasures.

Nevertheless, I've sworn off frivolity now. To redeem myself, the next trip to the library will see me bringing home only serious minded, intellectually stimulating tomes.

No more rockstar fluff to lead me down the road to ruin.

Oh look...a new memoir by Rod Stewart....