"What kind of music do you like?"
I always feel as though people who ask me this question are using it as a way to judge me. Since being judged frightens me more than anything else, my mind immediately jumps to a series of potential answers and their outcomes:
The Self-Deprecating Response: Oh, you know, anything that could be found on 80s Teen Pop Hitzzz Deluxe.
Result: Asker concludes that I sit all alone at home on Friday nights in a Saturday Night Fever tribute costume attempting to dance the Electric Slide. Person walks away.
The Mass Appeal Response: 50 Cent and some Drizzy, since that's how I roll, G.
Result: Asker wonders how someone who could ever claim to like "50 Cent" and "Drizzy" uses the word "since" and such proper grammar and concludes that I do not have the proper amount of gold-colored accessories to pull this identity off. Person walks away.
The "I'm Too Cool For You, Be Jealous" Response: Oh, you know, a little jazz here, a little ambient there. Totally a Brian Eno fan.
Result: Asker wonders who the hell Brian Eno is and concludes that I am a pretentious bastard completely undeserving of their attention. Person throws the nearest sharp implement at my head and walks away.
The Actually Truthful Response: My favorite artist is definitely Janet Jackson, but Lady Gaga, Metric, Scissor Sisters, and Utada Hikaru are definitely up there...
Result: The world ends. The person walks away, or at least they would walk away if the world hadn't ended. Unless they're a cockroach, in which case they survive the end of the world and they walk away from whatever is left of my body. But I don't think cockroaches usually care what kind of music anyone likes, so I don't think that's likely.
You can see the common denominator here easily--the person walks away, I am left alone to drown in an ocean of self-pity, and the asker becomes the latest entry on the long list of people I risk my life to avoid contact with. My mind decides that none of these answers will work and instead tries to ad-lib it:
"Oh, you know, a little of everything... a lot of stuff... I could totally tell you if I had (device) to pull up (website)... but you know... that's such a hard question to answer... yeah..."
Remember the ocean of self-pity? Yeah. It pours right out of the cold stare of the person who asked the question.
This wouldn't be a huge problem--yeah, it's an awkward moment, but it's something that can be gotten over relatively easily--if I didn't think about it the whole rest of the day. Everything I do throughout the day reminds me of an answer I could have given that would have made me look totally cool. At this stage, opening my iTunes and scrolling through my library reduces me to a sobbing mess on the floor.
This is kind of related to my problem with band shirts. You don't even know how long it took me to get up the courage to wear my Born This Way t-shirt from the Lady Gaga concert I went to. I'm afraid that I'll accidentally walk into a room full of people who are members of an anti-Gaga coalition that will tear my shirt to shreds as a political statement and burn some sort of insignia into my back that makes sure that everyone knows that I am one of those people who listens to pop superstars.
(can't resist: I almost typed "to shreds" as "to threads"... totally punny)
I'm guessing I'm going to have to learn how to deal with this at some point. How do you answer the abominable question? Do you tell the truth, or do you make up a spiffy lie? Does the world end? Let me know.
