I have a dirty secret. I LOVE popular music. You know what else I love? New Yorkers. And here’s why.

Two of my favorite songs right now are “Firework” and “Teenage Dream” by (cover your eyes) Katy Perry.

I was a Katy Perry virgin before I met my neighbor and good friend, J. Clearly I was missing out.

At least once a month J and I spend our Saturday afternoons driving to HomeGoods (new favorite store) in New Jersey. Most of these trips are accompanied by the Katy Perry Pandora station. If you happen to drive by us on such occasions, you’re likely to find us car dancing and singing our hearts out.

On one recent Saturday, crawling along in typical East Coast traffic, rain pounding on the windshield and “Firework” blasting through the speakers, I turned to her and said,

“I’m so glad you’re my friend because you’re the only person I know who likes bad music too.”

Oh did this send her into a flurry.

As we narrowly avoided rear ending the car in front of us, she vehemently responded,

“It is NOT bad music! Anything that gets me off my butt and dancing is NOT bad music!”

And I totally agree.

But here’s the thing. I was raised in the Midwest.

If Midwesterners are excellent at anything, it’s endlessly analyzing themselves and each other. Oh, and of course guilt. This is a lethal combination which leads to a lot of silent judgement (of self and others) and concern about what other people think. And even though I’m approaching my 6 year anniversary in New York City, I’m still a Midwesterner at heart. That plus having mostly indie-music obsessed friends makes it hard to admit that my favorite songs are by an artist who’s greatest talent is inspiring teenagers to have sex.

But does this sort of thing phase J? No way. Because she’s a New Yorker. Granted, she’s originally from the South, but she’s paid her dues having been here for over a decade. Plus, she’s got the one and only quality that makes a true New Yorker. She doesn’t apologize for who she is.

I could certainly learn a little something from her.

I often find myself feeling silly for who I am; for liking Katy Perry and Bon Jovi; for admitting that When Harry Met Sally is the only movie I can watch a million times and never get sick of; for dressing The Dog in sweaters and booties when it’s 30 degrees out; even feeling guilty for being so utterly happy with my life. How ridiculous is that? What good is being happy when you feel guilty about it? Thanks Minnesota for taking the joy out of being happy.

From now on, I will be doing my best to invoke the spirit of New York and stop apologizing for who I am. Dancing in my living room to Katy Perry makes me happy. If that makes you cringe, I’m not sorry. You don’t have to be there. I’m perfectly content with The Dog as my dancing partner. Sometimes I think he even likes it.