“Drake? Who’s Drake?”
My 50-something-year-old mom snickered at me. I had no idea who he was, but someone had sent me a parody video. “Are you being serious, Lyndse?” She couldn’t stop chuckling.
I’m not really a pop culture person. At all.
I’ve never seen The Walking Dead. I don’t know their names, conditions, or even how the zombies came about. It’s usually a virus, but I’ve no idea.
When Adelaide was born, I told Dave’s brother and his wife that her nickname was Adele. “Like the singer?” I stared at my sister-in-law with my pop culture blank stare. “There’s a singer named Adele?” I asked. She smiled. “Yes, she’s really famous.” Four years later, I’ve still never listened to an entire Adele song. I find her lyrics lackluster and every song seems to go to 11 and stay there for 3.5 minutes.
I stopped watching Downton Abbey after the first season. I saw a spoiler that they had killed off the only sister I actually liked. I nod when my mother-in-law fills me in on all the gossip. That Mary sure gets around…
My social media feed was peppered with a guy named Kendrick not winning the Grammy. No idea who he is. I do know who Taylor Swift is, but I’ve only heard two of her songs.
I’ve never seen Game of Thrones. I know nothing about it.
I’ve never seen a whip nae nae video. I know nothing about it.
This list could really go on and on and on. But I think you get the gist.
If you are talking pop culture at me, don’t get offended when I glaze over. I am really trying to follow along, but my brain doesn’t understand 70% of the words coming out of your mouth.
Just walk away when I start humming Pete Yorn lyrics from 2003, while contemplating how I can get a national holiday for Almanzo Wilder.