I find myself constantly irked by the din that calls itself modern pop music. I’ve taken to scowling and retreating into my disgruntled shell whenever I detect a hint of Justin Bieber or Bruno Mars in the air, and I hate myself for it. I act like a grandmother, wistfully recalling generations past that don’t even belong to me and rambling about the unmatched beauty of those days.

My disdain for most of the music of this day and age gives me the excuse to be anti-social. If — heaven forbid — I hear Taylor Swift’s whiny voice when I’m in the car with my mom, I can always plug in my headphones and listen to the incomparable Joni Mitchell. Why endure the agony of One Direction during study sessions with classmates when Simon and Garfunkel can soothe me? And so on.

Still, I’ve realized lately that these tendencies might be turning into a problem, and not only for my eardrums. Though I do find older music superior, I am not only distancing myself from

my companions but also from our entire generation. And it’s not just music that I use to bar myself from the trappings of 21st century adolescence, but also movies, books and television shows. On the outside I may look like a teenager, but I’m secretly a middle-aged woman (shh, don’t tell).

And yet I do not worry about isolating myself from my peers like a lone polar bear stranded on a floating block of ice in the middle of the melting Arctic. Why? Because our generation is so heterogeneous that I run into people with similar tastes all the time. True, the majority of today’s youth bob their heads to beats I find dull and repetitive, but I’ve already found people with whom I can gush over Cat Stevens. So, I’m quite satisfied standing awkwardly in the corner during dances, as long as I have a companion who also likes to gripe about Nicki Minaj.