This is not my favorite Fleetwood Mac song. Not by a mile. Rumors is one of the albums that gets better as I age, and pretty much every song on that record is better than this one, with the exception of “Don’t Stop,” which I just find cheesy and embarrassing. I blame the Clintons for this.

I’ll spare you a recap of the Mac’s history, though I think it’s worth pointing out that they’re one of the few bands that was pretty popular, then completely changed their sound by adding new members, and went on to become massive. In all honesty, only the Black Eyed Peas spring immediately to mind as another group that has pulled this off, but they sucked before Fergie and are even worse now.

I love this song because it reminds me of dentist office waiting rooms, buttery chardonnay, Reagan, Mix 106 in rush hour, perms on every mother, and the dread of Sunday afternoon at 5 when the smell of onions frying for the night meal reminded me that I’d have to go to school the next morning. Whether I was lying in my living room listening to this, or laying on the seafoam carpet in my friend’s living room as he threw a tennis ball against the wall above his fireplace, I didn’t want the song to end. I still don’t.