Me Me Me

Six short months from now, I will no longer be the parent of a teenager. My baby girl became a teen during the era of Dawson’s Creek, a show that now seems as tame as Captain Kangaroo. I progressed from Dawson and Pacey to The O.C. before my kids left for college; a girlfriend and I now savor the absolutely hilarious (and super-naughty) Gossip Girl together. Holy moly, I’m glad I don’t have a seventh grader at home anymore watching the underage G.G. crew sip colorful cocktails and lose their virginity on a weekly basis. And their wardrobes! “Mommy, I want Serena’s purse.” Honey, so do I!

The point of this particular trip down TV memory lane is that I love teenage pop culture. I can’t wait to see High School Musical 3 on the big screen this weekend. Hi Zac Efron! And my darling husband, who would surely rather listen to NPR or classical music on the Long Island Expressway, never complains about two hours of top-40 on Z100. He even gets into the spirit by asking, randomly, “Is that Britney?” (Rap, on the other hand, makes him reach for the secret station-changing button on the steering wheel.)

Is my taste for the young stuff inappropriate now that I’m the mother of two young adults? When do I have switch to Lite-FM? Truthfully, I’m slowly weaning myself from childish things — I don’t know one Jonas Brother from the other, and I can’t abide The Hills. But I’m determined to stay in the pop culture loop, even though being middle-aged gives me permission to listen to delightful singers like Michael Buble and Robin Thicke without apologizing.