I never thought this would happen to me. It’s like I’ve been bitten by a radioactive spider, except there are no cool superpower side effects. Instead, I’m just tortured by longing for something I’ve spent most of my life hating. I hate to say it, and I am so embarrassed to do so, but I think I may love country music.

I know, I know. It’s awful. Of all ailments to take me this early in life, this one is definitely at the bottom of my list. I cannot believe this is actually happening to me.

I think my disdain for country music stems from a childhood full of it. Most of my memories as a youngin’ are accompanied by a little country twang in the background. My stepdad was an avid country fan and there wasn’t anything I could do to escape it. Every time we got in the car, we had to listen to his favorite country CD or country station. When we would protest he would look at us and smile, “My car, my rules. When you get old enough to drive and you have your own car, you can choose what we listen to.”

That smile said it all. It was the smile of a deranged kidnapper who knew every move he made would only torture our souls even more. Such pain. Such agony.

My mom did everything she could to counteract this deep exposure to country music. She took her parenting seriously and inundated us with the usual classic rock figureheads. She even created a game we played when we got in the car with her. She’d flip on the classic rock radio station and the first person to shout out the name of the artist got a point. Long car rides up the coast turned into battlefields with “the game.” My mom and older brother ruled at it. They even passed on the good game-playing skills to my little sister. It skipped me. I was too busy in the backseat listening to the Backstreet Boys on my CD player.

Between this overexposure to classic rock and the hammering of old country dudes like John Hiatt and Hal Ketchum in my head, I was adamant about liking crappy tween pop. ‘N Sync, Britney Spears, Christina Aguilera, 98 Degrees … I had it all. Not only was I hell-bent on listening to overproduced and over-synthed late ‘90s pop, I vehemently detested the genres pushed on me as a child.

I have spent 75 percent of my life cursing the very foundation of every country song I have ever heard. No, I don’t care about the barbecue stain on your white T-shirt or how some girl is “killing you” in a mini-skirt. I don’t want to hear about your NASCAR races, I don’t care about the farm your parents own or the old dirt road you drive down in your rusted Chevrolet while you drink beer (which is illegal to do while driving, don’t forget that). Your 10-gallon hat is not cute, I don’t like your boots and your tobacco chew is grossing me out.

I had been singing that tune for a long time.

I was very serious about my distaste for this kind of music. When I visited my aunt and uncle in Texas, I would do everything I could to avoid any exposure to it. My uncle loved to blast country tunes on the radio while he did yardwork and when he was indoors, the Country Music Television countdown blasted for all to hear. I’d grit my teeth and get by, thankful they opened their home to me while I visited and knowing I had no place to dictate what played on the radio.

However, last summer something strange happened. My uncle Billy and I were lazily lounging on the couch watching the CMT countdown when “Homeboy” by Eric Church came on. I found myself, dare I say it, enjoying the music. And if that wasn’t enough – I can barely bring myself to even write the words – I found myself logging onto YouTube later that night to hear the song again … and again. I couldn’t believe myself. Something was coming over me.

The next thing I knew, I was home in my apartment downloading my favorite country songs, all heard during my week in Texas.

It was all downhill from there.

I saw the movie “Country Strong” and not only did I love it, I downloaded the soundtrack and listened to it on repeat for a week. When it came out on DVD, I ran to Target and bought it. I hadn’t bought a DVD since 2007.

The day after I turned 21, the first place I wanted to go was In Cahoots. I found myself digging through my closet looking for my “most country” outfit and pulling up to the bar at 6 p.m. to make sure I was there early enough for the free line dancing lessons.

Now, I am longing for a pair of cowboy boots.

I even drove all the way to Temecula for more line dancing and I had my friend make me a 50-song playlist with her favorite country jams on it.

It’s not enough that I’m letting country music and line dancing take control of my life. When I listen to country music, or when I’m line dancing, I feel like I’ve been transported into a world of pure bliss.

I’m like a junkie.

I don’t know how this happened. I don’t know why this is happening. I don’t know how to rid it from my brain. But I am embarrassed. I am confused. I am in a constant funk.

And the only thing that could fix this discomfort I’m feeling is a nice tall cold glass of beer, a slide guitar and the pair of really cute boots I just found at Boot Barn.

-Hayley Rafner is a journalism junior.