Why I’m Ditching “Guilty Pleasures” (alternate title: In Defense of the Pumpkin Spice Latte)

One could say that I have a lot of interests that are considered by many to be guilty pleasures.

Lifetime movies.

Boxed wine.

Copious amounts of dark chocolate.

Thinking that sometimes I look better as a cat than as a human (thanks for nothing, Snapchat).

Teen romance lit (I’m looking at you, John Green).

The occasional shower beer.

Reading and giggling at the Craiglist “Missed Connections” (#RIP)

Lulu pants/running shorts for everything.

Candles that smell like baked goods.

Nineties boy bands.

Pumpkin spice lattes.

Grabbing a massive bag of chips at the beginning of grocery shopping, then opening them and downing them while I shop because I handle stress well.

You get the picture.

I’d venture to guess that some of you share these interests. I’d further guess that you (and I, as well) have been labelled a basic bitch because of them. Or some other term intended to elicit shame for liking things that make you happy. So many things have turned into guilty pleasures. If what you’re reading isn’t James Joyce, it’s a guilty pleasure. If what you’re drinking isn’t Dom, it’s a guilty pleasure. If you forgo dinner for champagne and donuts (just an example, not like I did this last Friday), it’s a guilty pleasure. Things that aren’t considered elite are looked down upon, and those who like them have to explain away their choices. 

In Defense of the Pumpkin Spice Latte:  A Dissertation.

It’s exhausting. 

So I’m finished with guilty pleasures.

Oh, I’m not giving them up. Aw naw, hell naw.

No, I’m finished with feeling guilty for liking them.

Henceforth, these things will simply be referred to as pleasures. As interests. As shit I like, so shove it. Whatever you wanna call them. 

So yeah. I have my guilty pleasures. And sometimes, I’m a basic bitch. 

And I. Don’t. Care.

Because I am too damn old to care about what people think of the insides of my coffee cup. Or the label on my yoga pants. Or my top knot or my love of Savage Garden or downing an entire damn pint of Ben & Jerry’s or my DVR’d Lifetime movies. I don’t feel guilty for liking things that make me happy.

You do you. A wise man once sang (while rhyming about smoking weed), “Your choice is who you choose to be, and if you’re causing no harm, then you’re alright with me.” And your semicolon tattoo ain’t hurtin’ no one.

So if I want to sit on the couch in my underwear and eat Doritos and drink Andre from the bottle and watch old reruns of Alfred Hitchcock Presents, I damn well will.

And there ain’t no guilt in that kind of pleasure.