I am in no way a music “snob.” I love anything from Top 40 radio to Bob Dylan to that ironic indie band music industry kids can’t get enough of. I try to keep up with the latest trends purely because I enjoy listening to and playing music. But to be quite frank, I don’t have the time or the energy to read Pitchfork’s [music criticism site] arrogant reviews in search of the newest “underground” group just so I can brag about it. Therefore, my not-so-picky taste has lead me to develop a true hatred for this musical philosophy: “I listen to everything but country.”

I, too, used to be one of those elitists, deeming country music solely for the people who leave their Christmas tree up year round and keep plastic flamingos on their lawn. But thanks to my last co-op job, where my well-educated, respectful and anything-but-redneck co-workers would play it in the office, I’ve developed a new-found love for the “yehaw-ing” and the “hell yeah-ing” sounds of the South.

As much as I love running sprints to Lil’ John or belting out Rihanna in the shower, it doesn’t really mean anything. While “Moves like Jagger,” which is currently #1 on the Billboard charts, is the perfect sing-along at the bar, the lyrics don’t resonate with me at all. Not surprising from Maroon 5, but that’s beside the point. It’s not to say that all country music (especially Honky Tonk Badonkadonk, which is equally irrelevant) constantly speak volumes, but the premise of the music hits a little closer to home than “Super Bass.”

I think the reason why I love country music so much is because, whether I like to admit it or not, I am a country-girl-turned-city mouse (remember that book?). I grew up with a bunch of guys who would’ve rather chopped down trees than read and who loved Budweiser, their dogs and living pretty damn modestly. And that’s what’s not only comfortable to me, but also honest. As much as I believe I’m made for Manhattan, from my love of vintage clothes to my need to walk 15 mph down the street, I would much rather hang out in the local firehouse drinking beer with my group of male friends than go to a swanky nightclub. Every summer since the age of 13 consisted of building fires on the beach, riding dirt bikes through the neighborhood and not setting foot in high-heeled shoes, or any shoes for that matter, for an entire three months. While I was just as happy to leave high school and spread my wings away from the 50 kids I graduated with, my once-country lifestyle is all I can think about when I’m awoken by street cleaners and honking horns while living my “big city” dream.

As we all know, time grants perspective. Ironically, while in high school, I would’ve rather admitted to liking the Red Sox than admitted to liking country music. (Oh, how things have changed.) I was dying to experience other cultures, travel Europe and read Henry David Thoreau. Well five years later I’ve done all of those things, traveling Europe more successfully than reading Walden, and I’m finally beginning to embrace my “country” upbringing and the music that comes along with it.

While I enjoy being worldly and discussing politics, literature and all things fancy, there is a constant front; a need to one-up, a need to boast about specific cultural knowledge, and to appear to be something that, well, at the core, I’m just not. So forget sipping coffee, listening to St. Vincent and reading Kerouac in ERC – I’ll be singing along to Kenny Chesney in my favorite cowgirl boots.

– Erica Thompson can be reached at [email protected].