I could not believe it: Target had sold out of Britney Spears CDs. And not just “Circus,” her latest, but every single album. What was I to do?

It was not always like this, however. I did not always dig Brit.

In fact, in high school, I thought she was just another underage tramp heaving cleavage in schoolgirl attire. Of course, this is coming from someone who thought “Baby, One More Time” was about domestic abuse.

My disgust was palpable when her bad-mom antics and exposed nether regions began circulating the tabloids.

I mean, seriously, what a ho.

But then something changed. I can’t pinpoint what exactly made her more palatable. It might have been the head shaving, hospitalization, or even the visit from Dr. Phil.

Suddenly in my mind’s eye, she’d gone from spoiled “Pop Tart” to a real chick with actual problems. Britney was human, and I could relate, though I’ve never actually shaved my head, been hospitalized or had a chat with Dr. Phil.

And then there was the album “Blackout,” which I heard at a party; it was so insanely danceable, I bought it and never looked back.

So I asked myself one day, “Why is it that I only crank it up when nobody’s around?”

Is it because it’s my only time to whip out the hairbrush mic and get jiggy with it? Or am I actually ashamed of the fact that I totally rock to the music of Ms. Spears?

Bingo.

And apparently I am not alone. One of my friends recently admitted to working out to Britney only when no one is home.

Several other friends have also come forward, but they all wish to remain anonymous.

I suspect there are even more out there, which is pretty sad, considering it’s nowhere near as bad as fessing up to shoplifting or the preference for some bizarre sexual fetish.

I don’t know. Maybe I’m ashamed because of my former scorn, but does my newfound “Brit-love” make me a hypocrite?

Probably.

But when you really think about it, pop music in general gets a bad rap. It’s the domain of tweens and their ilk, the ones who have Miley Cyrus and the Jonas Brothers plastered across their bedroom walls.

It’s about as substantial as cotton candy. We’re talking extremely processed fluff here.

So when it comes right down to it, there are only two words needed to sum up my affection for Britney’s latest work: guilty pleasure.

Because let’s face it, cotton candy can be pretty darn tasty.