It happened as soon as I\u2019d started our new car for the first time. I figured it was something left over from the previous owner. \u201cMust have been an ABBA fan,\u201d we chuckled as the first strains of \u201cThe Winner Takes It All\u201d wafted unbidden through the speakers that night. It was easy enough to switch to the radio, so we thought nothing of it. When \u201cTake a Chance on Me\u201d popped up without warning the next time we started the car, we wondered if the previous owner had been Swedish, or maybe a distant relative of singer Anni-Frid Synni. By the time \u201cFernando\u201d came on that third morning, my cheeks were flush from shame: Somehow, the car was accessing the playlists from my phone. I didn\u2019t admit this revelation to my wife at first. I was always quick to share my rap playlist (Biggie Smalls, Dragon Boy Suede) or collection of Lynyrd Skynyrd tunes, but my ABBA albums were a closely guarded secret. Some men harbor dark secrets or illicit affairs. Me? I hid the fact that I owned both the European and North American releases of the \u201cABBA Gold\u201d albums. (The European version includes \u201cWaterloo,\u201d if you were wondering.) Suddenly, my car was outing my musical proclivities for the world to hear. Worse, I didn\u2019t know how to stop it. I\u2019d been driving a friend home for several minutes before I realized \u201cMama Mia\u201d had been playing softly in the background. I hastily poked at the dashboard as the opening notes to \u201cDancing Queen\u201d created that dreaded elevator music ambience that kills all hope for my musical credibility. Too lazy to read through the owner\u2019s manual (since when had these manuals become longer than War and Peace?), I eventually had to come clean to my wife. I\u2019m happy to say we are still married, but we\u2019ve had to endure many difficult conversations about the other skeletons in my closet (and yes, many did involve the Grateful Dead). I had to come clean about Adam Ant and Alanis Morissette, the Digital Underground and the Velvet Underground, Adam Levine and Avril Lavigne (I make no apologies: \u201cGirlfriend\u201d is a great tune). In the end, I got my wife to acknowledge the critical aging process that strips certain songs of their former reputations. What was once considered a Scarlet Treble (say, \u201cShake Your Booty\u201d by KC and the Sunshine Band) eventually comes to be regarded as endearingly \u201cretro\u201d when enough time has passed. The shame disappears into the acceptable haze of nostalgia. The difficulty is in establishing the parameters in which this magical transformation occurs. For instance, it\u2019s my contention that Hanson\u2019s \u201cMMMBop\u201d has already crossed that threshold and can be listened to in public without fear of judgment. My wife won\u2019t allow the windows down if the song is playing lest we be cast forever from decent society. My eighth grade students are brutal in establishing these limits. They were impressed when I played Ed Sheeran\u2019s \u201cShape of You\u201d last year at this time as it was topping the pop charts. When I tried to play it last month, however, I got sad, pitying looks. I might as well have played The Wiggles. In 20 years, that song will have been endowed with the patina of classic rock, the way I can play anything by the Beatles without student complaint. (Well, they might roll their eyes at Ringo\u2019s tunes.) For now, my wife and I have reached a d\u00e9tente. We accept that sometimes car rides begin with \u201cChiquitita,\u201d and that\u2019s OK. At least until she finds out about my Bangles playlist. You can read more at RobertFWalsh.com, contact him at RobertFWalshMail@gmail.com or follow him on Twitter @RobertFWalsh.