Guilty pleasures

My work productivity has been creeping up during business hours. Whether this is because my nascent coffee habit is turning me into twitchy yet efficient worker bee, or whether I’ve reduced the frequency with which I browse www.cakewrecks.com, I don’t know. But I’m happy with this development, especially since it means that I have less work to do over the weekend, and can actually tackle those pesky projects that have been sitting on my to-do list, collecting the proverbial dust.

This weekend’s project entailed taking my calcifying CD collection and ripping the songs onto my computer's hard-drive so that, you know, I too could act like today’s cool youth and listen to music on something called an “i-Pod” (you should check these devices out, seriously). My ulterior motive, however, was to do away with damning evidence that I have no taste in music – it’s easier for me to secretly store my Michael Bolton collection as mp3s in a folder cryptically titled “Bichael Molton”, than to have my daughter accidentally discover the “Best Of” collection years from now, and go crying to her mother because she doesn’t understand why daddy is this way.

Along the ripping process I discovered that at one time I enjoyed listening to all things Jackson (several Michael CD’s, as well as multiple Janet compilations), that at one time I had an affinity for Celtic music (go ahead, laugh – I’m proud of being the only Pakistani who enjoys jamming to a rollicking Irish bagpipe number), and that I have a fetish for Backstreet Boys songs. There, I said it. It feels good to let that out. I can finally move on now.

And don’t you dare judge me. I know you have secret song crushes too, even though you hate to admit it. Act nonchalant if you want. Flaunt your love for indy music and that obscure band from Turkey that no one else has heard, as evidence that you’re a music cognoscenti. But at the end of the day, I *know* that when you’re cruising down the highway with no one in the car, you’ll roll up the windows and secretly blast “Quit Playing Games With My Heart”. And that you’ll sing along. Loudly. And cry, because you don’t want others to play games with your heart.

Anecdotally I know this to be true. But I obtained evidence this weekend as well. I was ripping songs from a mix collection that a special someone gave to me while I was a freshman in college [special someone shall remain unnamed but this was well before I met my wife, my true special someone (I love you honey!)], when Saeeda brought Nuha into the room and started playing with the baby. It just so happened that I was burning a Backstreet Boys song from this CD at the time, and I couldn’t mute the computer volume fast enough. I don’t know why, but I felt flustered and dirty almost, like I was browsing an adult website and was trying to Alt-Tab my way out of the screen or something. Still, a 3 second clip managed to escape before I could mute the speaker. That’s when Saeeda turned around and casually asked why I was listening to “As Long as You Love Me.” From the Backstreet Boys.

Let me repeat – she identified the song from a three second clip. I’m not the only one people …