The Lucky Ones

Chapter 1 - Loose Girl...

First, let me start off this little introduction by saying that I am definitely not the person the media makes me out to be. Then again, what celebrity is? When you get into this business you know – even at a young age – that a part of you is going to be sold away forever; for most people, that part is the truth of who you really are. I’ve tried hard to keep who I am true so that everyone – not just fans, but critics and cynics, even cats and dogs – would know that this is the real me; but it seemed no matter how hard I tried people would always think what they want to think and believe what they want to believe. The hardest part of my career was learning to let go of that and accept that there will always be people out there who are going to hate me for something even as small as my hairstyle. Once I could get over that obstacle and accept that fact, things would be so much better.

Unfortunately for me, I’m stilllearning to get over it.

I gave up not reading things about myself a long time ago. It was worse hearing about it from a friend or a family member or even those few paparazzi who try to double as an interviewer at the same time. "Taylor, how do you feel about this being said about you?" "Did you hear that you’ve been called a –insert bad name here-?"No, Mister Paparazzi Guy, I had NOT heard about that until you brought it up to me. Thank you for ruining my day.

When I was younger, first starting out, it was easy to ignore everything that was being said. Social media wasn’t in such a full bloom then. There was Myspace and Facebook was just starting up, but other than that people were still relying on word of mouth and tabloids and those were all things that were fairly easy to avoid. But as technology grew, so did the inability to avoid the people who detested you most. So six years later, sitting down to read Tweets, Tumblr posts, Facebook posts, Online Tabloids, and anything else you could name it had become a part of my morning routine. And boy did it suck.

"You’re reading those again?" My mother asked as she sat down next to me on my bed. I still hadn’t gotten out of it, sweatpants and all. I briefly look over at her and nod once, not offering up much more of an explanation. What does she want to hear? That I like torturing myself? No. It was easier for me to sit down, read it all, and not be surprised with it later on. That way they wouldn’t get a reaction out of me. I would NOT give them a reaction. "Well, what’s the word today?" Mom settled down next to me, lounging on an elbow and looking over at my screen.

I read through a few tweets and shrugged a little, “I’m dating someone named Joseph Lancaster. It must not have been that special since I don’t remember it or him.” I couldn’t help the slight bitterness to my tone. I had been reading these things for months now, just waiting for something big to happen so everyone would get intensely angry and mean faced at me. It was funny to think that I, a twenty two year old girl, could date just as many boys in four years as a fifteen year old girl could date in one and I am suddenly this loose girl.

Yes. Loose girl.

They called me a loose girl. Mull that over in your head a little bit. Just taste it on your tongue. Okay, now if you don’t know what the “loose” (haha see what I did there?) definition of a loose girl is – here’s a breakdown: it’s a girl who is sexually promiscuous and has no emotional stability. WHAT?! I’m not even sure how to respond to this. Just… what?

But once again – this was one of those things that I had no concept or awareness of until the moment it was thrust upon me by paparazzi outside the coffee shop. Even something so simple as getting coffee couldn’t be done anymore. I was holding my Starbucks, it was cold outside and all I wanted to do was get back to my car and sit in the warmth and enjoy my Caramel Macchiato when the question was dropped on me: "Taylor, do you have anything to say about being called a loose girl?"No. But I almost lost my Macchiato to the ground because of it.

"I’m going to go out and walk," I said suddenly as I closed my laptop and pushed it away, eagerly climbing out of the bed to try and escape it all.

"You won’t get far, kiddo. Paparazzi are outside," Mom watched me as I didn’t stop changing into clothes that would be presentable.

"I just want to do something… normal, you know? Like… I don’t know. I want to walk with my headphones on without getting stopped to take pictures or sign autographs or… like… be a popstar."

Mom raised her hands defensively as my tone grew more and more frustrated, “This is the life you wanted, honey. Remember, 95% of the time… you really love being Taylor Swift the Popstar. It’s that 5% where you just miss being Taylor Swift the Girl.” She stood from the bed and took my face in her hands, pulling me down a bit so she could kiss my forehead.

"Yeah. Not Taylor Swift the Loose Girl, though." I grumbled mildly before grabbing my slightly curly hair up and winding a hair tie around it. Mom managed a small smile even though she could see I was pretty upset. When she smiled, I dropped the defensive air I had around me and sighed heavily. My shoulders feeling lighter as I realized that I was taking this out on the wrong person, "I just want to go out and get coffee or something without being followed. Is that too much to ask?"

"Not at all, which is why I propose you just dress down as much as you possibly can, take two of the boys with you, and sneak out the back way to go for a walk. Just be safe, keep her head down and your face covered." Even as she was saying this, I knew it wouldn’t work. They would discover me and then my little walk alone looking not-perfect would incite another speculation as to what was wrong with me. Mom seemed to be able to read that on my face too because she shrugged her shoulders, "Or, you could stay here and get ready for the party."

Oh, right. The party. I forgot about that. It was why we were in New York in the first place. We could be in China and I wouldn’t have realized what I was there for, my life had gotten that hectic lately. Groaning, I collapsed back on the bed and rolled with it when it bounced a little beneath my weight; “I’ll stay and get ready…”

Mom patted my knee, gave me a “that’s a girl!” smile, and left me to get ready. As the door clicked shut behind her, I reached over and grabbed one of the many pillows that lay atop the bed. Pressing it to my face, I let out a scream that probably wasn’t muffled by the pillow nearly as much as I would have liked it to be.