I’m Almost 50 Years Old and I Just Became a Swiftie

The most unexpected love affair I’ve ever had

Okay, Swifties, move over. New member to the club incoming! I know, I know, I’m 47. And a half. I realize I might be the oldest person here. And as far as I can see, I’m at least ten years late to the party.

How did this happen, you ask? How did I find my way here? Was it Travis Kelce? This whole Swelce romance?

I realize this will probably get me kicked out, but no. Hell no. Absolutely not.

Although…actually, I guess that’s not true. That is kinda the reason why I’m here.

Okay, I think we need to start at the beginning…

I don’t remember much from 2013. It was a rough year for me. But one thing I do remember, one soft joy that came into my world was a song called Everything Has Changed.

I vaguely recognized this young singer named Taylor Swift. I’d seen her somewhere before, though I couldn’t say where. Wasn’t she a former child actress? Or had she won American Idol as a teenager? I honestly didn’t know — and though I know I’ll probably get my Swiftie membership card revoked for admitting this, I still don’t remember how she got her start.

I just know this song landed in my ear at some point in 2013 and I’ve been singing it to myself ever since.

Despite how much I loved it, and the fact that I bought the MP3 single, I never bought the Red CD. Never explored her music further. I didn’t even know any other songs from that album.

A year later (if memory serves), another one of her songs burst into my life and you could say it got me through the two-year process of the dissolution of my most significant relationship.

The literal woods was my sanctuary, but I understand that the woods in Swift’s song were a reflection of the dark, terrifying transition I was enduring. And Swift knew exactly what this felt like. I could tell every time I sang the chorus alongside her.

And still, incredibly, I bought the MP3 single and that was it.

I suppose I have to admit that as much as I loved some of her songs, I also violently hated others. Yes, yes, here’s my membership card, go ahead and take it. I’m never going to be a perfect Swiftie.

I don’t expect to love every song a musician writes. I don’t hold Carly Simon, Beyonce, or Tori Amos to this impossible standard, and wouldn’t do that to Swift, either.

But god, I really, really hated some of the songs. They were so aggressively youthful that it brought back way too many horrific memories of high school for me. Shake It Off, Style, Blank Space…and that song about how the girl in the short shorts isn’t right for him…god, I hate them. I know, I know. Those are some of her most beloved songs.

I’m not saying they’re bad. Art is subjective, after all. They just transport me to an age I don’t want to remember.

Maybe that’s why it took me so long to get here. I had to rely on the radio to build this relationship, and it was only serving me up the songs that everyone else loved. Songs that made me feel I was too old to be a Swift fan.

So I embraced what felt like a guilty pleasure when I blasted Bad Blood in my car, but never tried to get to know her music better.

Now I’m sure you want to know where Travis Kelce comes into this, because I think Swifties are supposed to be obsessed with him right now. (I’m not, but does the fact that I know that I should be earn me my membership card back?)

Ever since Swift began dating this guy (someone I’ve never heard of until now), the two have been all over my social media feeds. I can’t fathom what algorithmic logic would have thrown them my way, considering the depth of my indifference regarding celebrity relationships, yet some kismet must have been at play. Because each video was, of course, playing a Swift song in the background.

What was this incredible rat-ta-tat-tat of lyrics about being drunk in the back of a car and the revelatory “I-love-you-ain’t-that-the-worst-thing-you-ever-heard?” Oh my god, I’m dying.

And how about the sweeping, airy ballad about sipping August away like a bottle of wine that makes you feel like you’ve just been kissed by the pier on a humid afternoon right before Labor Day? How did she do that?

Or the stunningly sophisticated, dreamy melody about that old cardigan under someone’s bed that is both comforting, thanks to Swift’s familiar breathy vocals, and yet sneakily disconcerting with unexpected elements like the insistent, gentle percussion that opens and guides this sonic feast?

And then…then I heard All Too Well (Taylor’s Version), a song I had missed the first time around (and I guess the second time around, too), and I finally had no choice but to surrender.

I might be a burgeoning Swiftie, but I’m sorry, I’m not here to talk about her new relationship. I already did that, and wasn’t surprised to find that a few people mistook my discomfort about people’s sometimes obsessive interest in it as malevolence.

Even before I was turned, I would never. That’s just not my style. And with Swift? Absolutely not. Not our girl.

I’d love to talk about her business acumen someday — that’s something I’ve long admired about her. But the reason I’m a burgeoning Swiftie is simply because of her talent as a songwriter and storyteller.

Folks, I’m starting to get it. Like, get it.

I recently watched Spider-Man: Far From Home and felt this spark of annoyance every time Jake Gyllenhaal appeared on the screen. I couldn’t figure out what my problem was. I don’t dislike him. I’m indifferent, at worst. But damn if he didn’t set me grumbling every time he appeared on screen.

Then I realized what was bothering me. I’d just spent three days listening to the 10-minute version of All Too Well over and over again.

To be clear, I don’t know the story well. I didn’t even know they had dated. I simply discovered recently (again, through social media) that this song was allegedly about Gyllenhaal.

That’s when things started to fall into place. That’s when I realized what makes Swift’s music so goddamn powerful.

It’s not about Gyllenhaal or any of her past boyfriends. It’s the fact that every single woman who listens to her songs bleeds a little when she hears lyrics like, “And you call me up again just to break me like a promise, so casually cruel in the name of being honest” because we have lived it.

Let me be clear, I’m not talking about bonding over broken hearts. I’m talking about being a woman navigating heterosexual relationships in a patriarchal world. I’m talking about the burden of opening our hearts to men in a culture where masculinity is defined by how many women you bed, how many of them you juggled at the same time (particularly if they don’t know about one another), and how emotionally detached you can remain through it all. I’m talking about being a human being who is biologically programmed to seek love and connection with other humans, only to find that half of them have been socially conditioned to deny us (and themselves) this love and connection.

It is a cycle I’ve written about many times, one that causes cumulative trauma. And any woman who dates men understands this particular trauma all too well. (Sorry…couldn’t help myself.)

Though I never would’ve thought I’d say something like this even just a month ago, I’ve discovered that Swift and I have something in common. For both of us, our joys and heartbreaks fuel our writing.

Though I don’t know how her songs correlate to her relationships the way the average Swiftie does (hell, I couldn’t even list more than a few men she has dated), I know her pain. She has shared it with us, a reflection of collective female pain. I know it, too, because my words are often inspired by that pain, as well.

My writing is often the only salve that can soothe a moment of overwhelming despair. It is the only solace I know. And though I realize there are many who believe this diaristic style of writing is little more than a bid for attention at best, or acts of vengeance at worst, I know it for what it is: a process of alchemy.

Humans seek meaning in everything. This is why we long to know other people’s stories, and why we love to share our own. Some of us just happen to do it more formally, and happen to put it out into the world where others can choose to interact with those stories, to take solace in them, to use them as a way to extract meaning from their own experiences.

And there’s another reflection of myself that I see in her: my idealism. I always joke that no matter how jaded I get in middle age, there’s still a 16-year-old inside me, seeing the world through rose-colored glasses. She doesn’t direct the story, anymore. There’s only so much pain, betrayal, and heartbreak one can experience before that innocent part of ourselves goes into permanent hiding.

But there’s something about Swift’s idealism and innocence that speaks to my inner 16-year-old. That gives her a drink of water and a piece of buttered toast. That makes her think that somewhere, somehow, everything will be okay.

I even kinda enjoy the collision of my cynicism with Swift’s view of the world. At my age, I know that he* didn’t keep that scarf. He doesn’t care that it smells like her. He isn’t reminded of her every time he sees it. And if she hadn’t immortalized their love story in a song that became beloved by millions, he likely wouldn’t even have remembered dating her, at all.

My sage older self wonders if, ten years later, Swift figured this out yet. Cardigan’s assertion that she knew he would come back gives me reason to believe she, too, is growing out of those rose-colored glasses as she makes her way through her thirties. This time, his predicted return reads more like Peter Pan returning to Wendy after she has grown up. After it’s too late.

I find it reassuring, in a way, to see women learning the hard lessons I’ve learned. To see her hardening and softening at the same time.

And one day, she’ll come to find out what I’ve learned, which is that, too late or not, Peter Pan never comes back.

*This pronoun isn’t referring to the alleged subject of the song. It is meant as a symbolic “him.”

So here I am, late to the party as usual. I’m probably an unlikely Swiftie, and certainly a substandard one. What self-respecting Swiftie doesn’t care about her love life, after all?

Well, I’m sorry, but I only care about it to the extent that it fuels her beautiful music and gives my heart a safe space to rest.

I even went to Walmart a few nights ago in the hopes of finding a CD of Folklore. A CD, folks. I don’t even remember the last time I purchased a CD. But thanks to a broken aux cable in my car, that’s where I’m at if I want to blast August while cruising down the highway. (And I do.)

Sadly, they didn’t have it, but I was so determined that I almost bought the Folklore vinyl. And I don’t own a record player anymore.

So yeah, this is serious. I’m in love. And I’m pretty sure this is the first time I started with a broken heart and ended up with stars in my eyes, rather than the other way around.

© Y.L. Wolfe 2023

Y.L. Wolfe is a gender-curious, solosexual, perimenopausal, childless crone-in-training, exploring these experiences through writing, photography, and art. You can find more of her work at yaelwolfe.com. If you love her writing, leave her a tip over at Ko-fi.

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