If you can’t beat ‘em join ‘em.

There was a time when I swore I didn’t like 80s music. My mom would have it playing in the car, at home, anywhere she could sneak it in. And every time she did, I would sit there in silence, arms crossed, face unmoved, determined not to enjoy it. Stubbornness is a family trait, and I was no exception. My sister, on the other hand, gave in almost immediately. She was humming along to “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” and belting out Pat Benatar before I’d even admitted the music had a beat.

But of all the songs, “Come On Eileen” was the one I resisted most. That opening fiddle, the frantic energy, the part where the tempo kicks into high gear, I hated how catchy it was. It got under my skin, and I was not about to give my mom the satisfaction. But little by little, the lyrics crept in. I’d catch myself tapping my foot or mouthing the words when I thought no one was watching. It was a slow, silent surrender, and before I knew it, I was all in.

As my mom would say with a grin, “If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.” And I did, completely. Now I’ve got an entire 80s playlist of my own, and I don’t just tolerate those songs, I love them. I crank them up, sing every word, and every time “Come On Eileen” comes on, I can’t help but smile. Smile at the music, at the memory, and at the way my mom somehow always knew I’d come around.