Photo by Drew de F Fawkes. From Wikimedia, CC BY 2.0.
Britney Spears, Roundhouse, London (Apple Music Festival 2016).
When someone mentions Britney Spears within my earshot, there is only one thing I can do: become their best friend—because one, I know anyone who knows that Pepsi’s the best kind of Pepsi has to be a good person. And two, their impeccable taste is only further solidified because I know that they know “sprankle” cheese is elite cheese. Both essential qualities in a friend, in my opinion.
In the rare instance someone is speaking ill of the Princess of Pop, the Duchess of Dance, the COUNTESS OF THE EIGHT COUNT, I must say I am…taken aback. And, I dread what happens next.
My hip juts out, my finger flies in front of my face and the words, “First of all…” form on my lips before, thank goodness, my conscience shuts me up. (My conscience, for the record, is my momma Mary’s voice sayin’, “It’s not ya business what other people like or don’t like, Megan UH-lizabeth.” She’s right. I mean, she’s always right.)
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But, the truth is I can't help myself. It’s a compulsion like the way I suck my teeth before saying “aww” at a cute puppy or bite a chunk of ponytail when I’m thinking too hard. Could this just be Y2K nostalgia eating away at me? A deep-seated, long-buried yearning for the more innocent time of body glitter, the Backstreet Boys, and butterfly clips? No, it can’t just be that; when people talk smack about Christina Aguilera or Jessica Simpson or Mandy Moore, I don’t reach for my hoops. So, it must just be Britney…
But, why?
Why do I feel the need to go so hard to defend someone who doesn’t even know I exist? Someone whose life couldn't be more different from mine? The closest I’ve ever gotten to a red carpet was a purple one in my twenties after I tripped over an exercise ball and spilled a bottle of Bordeaux all over my Dallas living room.
When exactly did my obsession with Brit-Brit start? The first time I can remember hearing her name was when I was twelve. It was on one of those November days in Lafayette, Louisiana that started off chilly but had me sweating through my Limited Too pullover by noon. The music video for “. . . Baby One More Time” had just premiered on Thanksgiving and I remember my tween self thinking it was the hottest thing I’d ever seen except for maybe Thursday’s fried turkey.
If my girlhood had a soundtrack, it would be Britney’s top hits.
I watched MTV religiously every day after that to record the video just so my best friend and I could learn the dance. It was the first of many of my VHS tapes labeled Megan’s Mix—many of which captured Britney’s most iconic performances.
My best friend would come over to mine and I to hers, the tapes always in tow, so we could memorize each step perfectly. We’d read in YM or Teen that Britney was from our home state, catapulted from Kentwood to Hollywood. It was proof that it was only a matter of time before we were discovered, too—maybe at Target, Albertson’s, or Hebert’s Specialty Meats.
It was at one of these Britney-slumber-dance parties when I got the first sucker-punch of girlhood. My best friend let slip that the party we were both attending the next day had a sleepover after, and I wasn’t invited. It was a blow that made my heart wince. From that moment on, Britney’s bangers became something more; a way to drown out hurt, a place of escape.
Whenever I heard my mom crying— “My loneliness is killing me….” Or my dad breaking things— “But she cry, cry, cries in her lonely heart…” The sounds of the girls from the party prank calling me—my best friend’s laugh the most distinctive before the click— “Sometimes I run, sometimes I hide….”
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If my girlhood had a soundtrack, it would be Britney’s top hits, plus a couple of deep cuts (ahem, “Cinderella” and “Unusual You”). It was her voice that truly got me through the toughest years of adolescence, days that I thank the good Lord didn’t involve social media. Whenever I thought things wouldn’t get better, when home was scary and my friends became my bullies, I’d take Britney with me in my discman and plop down barefoot in the warmest spot of the yard, my trampoline, a ritual that reminds me of a page I earmarked in Britney’s memoir The Woman in Me. In it, Britney says, “I would lie down on these rocks and look up at the sky, feeling the warmth from below and above, thinking: I can make my own way in life. I can make my dreams come true.”
Same, Britney. Same. You see, Britney didn’t just sing about loneliness. She really and truly knew loneliness. And not just any kind of loneliness. She knew my special brand: a Louisiana girl loneliness, the kind that can only be cured by bayou heat and a bit of hope.
So yes, I do still go hard for Britney Spears, all these years later. Can you hold it against me?
