On our last holiday, I was reading a book, and finding it a bit of a struggle, when my wife suggested that I read one of hers. She tends to like fiction that involves a neighbour having an affair with a murderer who happens to be hiding in plain sight as a primary school teacher, or something. I scoffed at her suggestion, and went back to reading my non-fiction book about patterns of behaviour on public transport. But when my wife went to get ready for dinner, I picked up her book, to provide myself with the ammunition to be smug about her literary choices while we ate, like the prick I am. As I chuckled to myself about how superior I was, I began reading. My internal monologue went: “This is so awful. Why would you waste your time with this? This dialogue is a bit naff. Oh God, who says naff any more? Am I getting old? Only old people say naff. That neighbour seems a bit suspicious to me. What is he up to? I’ll just read a bit more. Oh God, I think I love this book.”
I finished it that same evening. My wife was delighted. Her smug bastard husband had succumbed to the world of light fiction, and loved it. It turned out that she was the one with the ammunition over dinner, and my attempts at claiming I had enjoyed it ironically were pathetic even by my standards.
This is not to say that I don’t still enjoy non-fiction; it’s just that I have been labouring under the assumption that I only like highbrow books about the human condition when, actually, I also love to smash through a book about a man having an affair with a woman who regularly kills cats.
It occurred to me that I might have been overestimating my tastes elsewhere, too. My hip-hop podcast has meant that I stay across as much new music as I can, but I have very much nailed my colours to the mast: what I like is a particular style of lyrical, intricate, boom bap hip-hop. That is, until I took my kids to watch Spider-Man: Into The Spider-Verse, the soundtrack to which features Post Malone. He’s a rapper who looks like that mate who grew up on your estate, took LSD once and never fully came down, but he is also one of the biggest stars in the world. I have previously tried to avoid him. But when I finally listened to a Post Malone playlist, my internal monologue went: “This is not for me; it’s so obvious. This beat sounds dope, though. Who says dope, any more? You are so old. This track is catchy. This next track is catchy. Oh, I think I love Post Malone.” And I do. It turns out I really do, and I’m going to get a face tattoo.
Deciding to just like what I like has proved to be incredibly liberating. I have started eating peanut butter and banana sandwiches. I have bought a BMX bike. The other day I sat down to watch Keeping Up With The Kardashians, and I actually thought it was a pretty compelling watch. And it was during my third straight episode of this, an episode in which 15 minutes was spent discussing the merits of bone broth, that I realised what was happening.
The books were fine, the music was fine – but my journey had gone too far. I had embraced being myself a bit too much, and it’s possible that I might be a moron. So excuse me if you will – I have some soul-searching to do. After I watch one more Kardashians episode.
