Of course, you'd never do something like this.

Every now and then I find myself in a situation that merits either panic, disgust, or frantic excuse-making.  Usually all three at once.  Of course, I'm sure that none of you know just what I'm talking about, so please indulge me while I explain.

I'm a man who enjoys the finer things in life.  Things that make you wonder how you ever could have done without.  Things like Italian shoes, or German cars.  Cigars dipped in brandy, and the perfect pinstripe on a tailored jacket.  I'm a man who will waft about in a room filled with the sounds of Ligeti and Part, praising the golden fingers of Gidon Kremer and thinking I am more likely having a religious experience rather than just listening to music.

Of course, then there are days like yesterday- of which are becoming increasingly common.  I had arrived home from work, and upon finding I had the house to myself I began to do what I would normally do- sit and waste time looking up useless things on the internet; the kind that nobody else in the world would want to know.  Ask me later if you really want to know (you don't).  Anyway.  On a normal day I would sort through my vast library of music and select something tasteful, well-thought through and slickly produced.

Yesterday, however, was not a normal day.  Yesterday I open iTunes and, without thinking and with just a little too much excitement I scrolled down to the where The Artist Formally Known As Prince is to be found, and double clicked "Raspberry Beret".  And- as if to laugh in the face of anyone who would suggest that I couldn't sink any lower than that- I did something else.  I sang along.  Quite loudly.

Now before you go judging me, let me finish my story and get to my point.  Not one minute into the song (and perfectly in time with the chorus, I might add) my wife came home and caught me mid-song, invisible microphone up to my mouth.  Needless to say I my face turned into a ripe tomato and I quickly tried to write the whole incident off.

But as I sat wafting in the stink of my shame, I realized something.  Everybody has a closet full of dirty laundry.  No matter who you are, you have dirty little secrets hidden away that you don't want anybody to know about.  And guess what folks?  I'm here to tell you that it's okay!  Let's all be free of our oppression and openly announce to the world what our hidden pleasures are, so that we may find solace in the company of like-minded (but equally tasteless) people.  So here goes.

I love Maroon 5, and know all the words to "Wake Up Call".  I eat chicken nugget roll-ups when nobody is around (don't pretend you don't know what those are).  I once ordered Bud-Light Lime and enjoyed it.  I've watched "The Notebook".  By myself.  Eating popcorn.  With a box of tissues.  You see, nobody is perfect.  But on second thought (as I re-read my startling confessions), let's not show our guilty pleasures to the world.  These types of things should be buried in a shoebox deep, deep below the spot where you buried your pet hamster.  Let's make sure Adam Levine's voice never gets heard of again. 

And of course, if you find yourself in a spot where you simply MUST sing "Raspberry Beret"- make sure you know what time your wife gets off work.