I have a confession to make, and I may lose readers for this one (and certainly some hipster friends). I kind of like One Direction.

Now before you picture me hanging up posters of Niall, Harry, Zayn, Louis, and Liam (I had to look up their names) or painting my face and making “I Love 1D” tees for their concert (the tickets of which I bought last year), jump back and at least let me state my case.

First off, I don’t like them that much and don’t ever plan to reach that level of fandom without being brainwashed, hypnotized, or kidnapped by the band and kept alive only by my undying affection. I am merely a casual “sing-along and enjoy the tune” kind of fan, and I wasn’t always like this.

At the end of the last school year, I hated One Direction with a burning passion. I would change the station if their music came on, and I pitied the One Direction fans because, clearly, they did not have my refined taste in music. My firm belief was that One Direction was the wrong direction. They were on the same level as Justin Bieber (and I still don’t like him). {sidebar id=65}

Then came the summer of One Direction. Their songs were what my friends played in Boston; they were what we danced to at every social gathering. They were the essential soundtrack of the summer. At first I was vehemently opposed to this. Then came the slippery slope. I started slightly moving to the beat, then started to know the words, then started to like the tune. Then, pretty soon, (and you can blame this on an association with awesome times if this column is breaking your heart) I liked them.

Then I went through the sudden shame that comes of liking One Direction. I denied it thinking, “What would my friends say? Their music is junk!” I tried to force myself to hate it by finding problems with the lyrics. I even ended up hiding my favoritism by sitting perfectly still when their songs came on and dancing only when absolutely no one else was around (which is hard when pretty much all you do is dance). I would do anything to hide my newest musical preference.

Then I thought about how ridiculous I was. Why do I need to hide that I like admittedly overproduced and poorly thought-out music? My friends? Hopefully they’ll still like me. My family? Well, Mom and my sister credit it to teenage craziness and Dad doesn’t care that much, or is such a hipster that he is still in shock.

When it comes down to it, they aren’t deep musical artists, or even very deep at all. I mean, come on, it is a boy band. But, they are charming, cute, and their songs are upbeat and catchy. What’s not to like?

So if there is one thing to take from this confession it is this: life is short. If you like a dorky upbeat boy band, or that really cheesy movie, or something else that at first you vowed not to like, get over it! Maybe you lose some hipster points, maybe your super cool friends respect you a little less, but if it makes you happy, sing “What Makes you Beautiful” at the top of your lungs and dance like your feet are on fire. I’m right there with you.