There is something you love – a show, a book, a hobby – which perhaps doesn’t fit with the image of the person you’ve constructed, so you hide it. You enjoy this thing, you love it, but whenever you admit it, there’s a rush of shame that fills your chest and floods your face. Maybe there are different reasons you’re ashamed about it – it’s childish, there’s not really a lot of intellectual substance to it or nobody else you know likes it, and so on and so forth.
“It’s just a guilty pleasure,” you say as you try to laugh it off.
It’s OK. It’s OK to enjoy things; it’s OK to love something. If something is important to you, causes no hurt to anyone, and gives you a reason to smile, why does it have to create a guilty response?
Perhaps it’s because we’re told during early adolescence that growing up means leaving things behind. Growing up means no more childish interests, no more sugar-sweet mindless cartoons, no more games or toys. You put the stuffed animals on the shelves and you sleep alone, like an adult. You move your shirt with your favorite character to the back of the closet and only wear it when you know you won't see anyone you know. You change your bed sheets from Disney to solid colors… or, if you’re feeling wild, maybe stripes.
You do all this because you are a serious adult and serious adults don’t sit down and talk with their teddy bears or know all the words to every Disney princess song. You’re a grownup. Grownups are responsible and mature and they only enjoy respectable grownup things, like coffee or those bridge puzzles in the newspaper, or folding ties, or the news. Grownups don’t have dolls; they have collectible statuettes that nobody is allowed to touch. They are always being productive and when they’re not being productive, they’re asleep. (Grownups always want to sleep. Sleep is an acceptable grown up thing to enjoy, as long as it’s not done in excess.)
But growing up shouldn’t have to mean stripping away the things you love. Growing up shouldn’t mean painting yourself grey. Growing up shouldn’t mean that telling someone you still watch cartoons feels like a confession. So you like the Minions, or Barbie, or weird socks, or playing with Legos – so what? Everyone loves something. The world is in sad enough shape as it is without making other people feel bad about still enjoying things they loved as children; we shouldn’t have to be embarrassed about enjoying the things we do.
