Pitbull and Moms: A Theory

I’ve only been in college for about a month now, and yet frenzied and overzealous pals are already talking about dreams of graduate schools and lofty internships, as they cavalierly mention that they fluently speak six languages and recently designed an app that delivers fresh-baked cookies to elderly people’s doors. Needless to say, I’m left reeling, casting a hard glance back on my life’s small pile of accomplishments. The shining gem on the top of the heap, shrouded in a nimbus of pure and utter once-in-a-lifetime brilliance, is this: My theory on Pitbull fans.

You see, not all mothers in this world are Pitbull fans; however, definitively, without any speck of doubt, all Pitbull fans are moms. Before you begin to question the rock-solid validity of this claim, I beg you to picture my mother, a 50-something-year-old mom of two, cruising down the highway in her Mazda 6, blaring the 2014 banger that smashed the Billboard charts at rank 23: Fireball. Is there a single soul on Earth who feels such shameless and intoxicating glee as she smugly looks over to me in the passenger seat and lowers her voice to mimic Mr. 305’s anthemic declaration of whiskey?

Maybe your mom hates Pitbull. Maybe your mom’s mom hates Pitbull. But you are kidding yourself if you assert you’ve never caught a glimpse of some jazzy footwork at a wedding or a lil’ dash of steering wheel drumming from some mom in your life at the first note of “Hey Baby (Drop it to the Floor)”.

What’s the explanation behind this scientifically proven phenomenon? To try to tackle justifications with absolute certainty is to try to assert the meaning of life in less than two words: insufficient and dissatisfying. I like to think that we’re all born with the capability to be Pitbull fans, but then again, I’m a nurture over nature kinda gal. It’s nice to imagine that moms are the only ones so deeply entrenched in the I-don’t-give-a-what attitude that comes with bearing an actual screaming mass of life out of your hoo-ha to be able to openly and unabashedly appreciate the genius of Pit’s work. Maybe his baby-smooth head invokes a sort of instinctive maternalism; regardless, the infatuation is a natural and just fit that helps me get to sleep at night. If this is the one generalization I embrace in all of my life, I will die happy and willingly “Timber” into my grave.

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