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Not-So-Guilty Pleasures

There’s nothing wrong with a bit of self-indulgence. From time to
time it’s nice to give in to the little things that are so simple but
bring so much enjoyment to our lives. Sometimes they’re things that you
don’t want to mention to your friends or family, because you’re worried
that it might be a little bit embarrassing. It is common to refer to
these small, private indulgences as “guilty pleasures”. Recently,
however, I have been assessing my arsenal of secret treats, and I have
come to the conclusion that there’s no reason to feel guilty about any
of them, because if you enjoy doing something and it doesn’t hurt
anyone, really there’s no harm it it. Just to prove that I’m a woman of
my word, and that I really don’t feel guilty about any of the things I
like, I’m going to share with you a few of the little items and
activities I partake of when I think no one is looking.

Not-So-Guilty Pleasures

My hope is that this will give others the courage to come forward and admit to their
own secret pleasures, and thereby we can all liberate ourselves with the
truth. Or perhaps we’ll all just be embarrassed together.

We’ll see.

ABBA.

There, I said it. When I’m alone and my mood
needs a boost, there is nothing like the Swedish fab four to get me
singing along with feet tapping and head bobbing. I used to be worried
that such an admission would prompt reactions of raised eyebrows and
stunned silence, but since I have started openly telling people this,
I’ve been shocked at how many “me too!” responses it has inspired. It
seems I’m not the only one stuck in the 1980s — not by a long shot.

Coloring books

. I know, I know. I can’t explain
it. There’s just something about a fresh, new coloring book and a
Crayola 64-box that does it for me every time. If I had room in my
schedule, I’d color for hours on end. I’m not good at drawing or
painting, and I don’t particularly like creating visual art, but give me
a coloring book and I’ll be more than happy to make you something
truly, truly juvenile.

Eating ice cream straight out of the tub.

And no,
I’m not talking about those little petite containers of fancy designer
ice cream; I’m talking about the big honking family-sized bucket of Blue
Bell Rocky Road. Just give me a spoon and I’m good to go. Mind you,
of course I don’t eat the whole thing in one sitting… that would just be
ridiculously excessive. I do have some restraint, you know. Ahem.

Spending an entire day in my pajamas.

If you call my
house at any time of day on a Sunday, even in the evening, there’s a
huge probability that the person you’re speaking to on the other end is
in her pajamas. No, it’s not for a costume party — that’s just my
little way of celebrating the fact that I have a lovely day with nothing
to do and nowhere to go.

The Simpsons

. No, it’s not the height of
comedic excellence, nor is it even the highest quality animation on
television. Often the jokes are crude, repetitive, or just downright
childish. It’s the sort of thing you would think a reasonably
intelligent person would get tired of after a while. Nevertheless,
there is little on TV that makes me more excited than the idea of a
multi-hour Simpsons marathon, preferably with the inclusion of the aforementioned ice cream and pajamas.

So now you know how I roll. These are my top skeletons, fresh out of
the dusty closet that I don’t have time to clean because I’m too busy
coloring. These things used to be items of great shame and
embarrassment for me, but then I started to think, why? What does it
hurt if I enjoy Scandinavian pop? Who really cares if I never quite
make it into day clothes on a Sunday? If any of these items have struck
a chord with you or reminded you of your own private indulgences, I
encourage you to come forward and comment — share your story so that we
all may learn the joy of doing those activities that you have discovered
are great fun.

And by being proud instead of ashamed of all the things
we like to do, the word “guilt” no longer applies, and our guilty
pleasures graduate to being simply “pleasures”.

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