I’ll admit, I wasn’t born singing “You Belong With Me” straight out of the womb (probably because Taylor would still be a jammin’ lil fetus for another month) but mid-college I was converted to the wonders of belting out “Fifteen” as a 21-year-old.
Every Saturday on the bucolic drive to my art class, my mother and I would drive past a dilapidated brown barn, the words “Go-Go Girls” slathered on the side in chipping yellow paint. I’d point it out to my poor mother, who, an honest woman herself, decided to explain to me that it was an unfortunate place where women would dance naked for money.