The other night after getting caught in a horrific traffic jam, Scott and I ducked into our local market for a jumbo beer and oysters. Typically a gritty, noisy scene, it’s a wonderful spot to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with all sorts of locals-- workmen with paint-splattered boots, retired men with ruddy faces, an occasional pack of young guys. Their most senior oyster-shucker’s hands look exactly like the oyster shells themselves. If you’re lucky enough to grab one of their wobbly old stools, it’s a fantastic place to spend an hour or two.
We hadn’t been there in a long time, and I was surprised to see a wine bar set up where there used to be more counter space. Stools with backs lined it. Being Friday evening, it was crowded, but not with the usual variety. It was filled with white people with hip glasses and cashmere scarves.
We mosied up to some open counter space and set down our cups. We were too close to a loud Abercrombie family was seated, teaming with towheaded, hyper kids.
A while later, our order was up and Scott scooted over to claim it. I watched him pardon himself to a chardonnay-swilling red head who was blocking the bar. She had already caught my eye. I already decided I detested her. Her orange hair was cut short, she had on patent leather loafters and smart black trousers and some business-casual jewelry around her neck. She talked NONstop to a grey-templed man in a leather jacket. He didn’t get a word in. She was fired up about something, something that kept her mouth running and alternately swigging the vino. Her face grew redder as she yammered on.
“Excuse me, please,” Scott said with a nice smile, “I just need to grab my oysters”. She looked almost horrified, then moved over a wee bit. “Just be sure they don’t get near me”, she snorted and turned her back.
I looked at her, against the backdrop. What was she doing there? Who swills wine at a seafood hut and barks at people trying to have a nice time? I started thinking how much I despised yuppies. I was longing for the Old Market where pretention was nonexistent. Yuppies. Hate ‘em. Go back to where you came fr---
Then I looked down at my lap, my leather purse, my suede jacket. I’d just finished a long-winded work story myself. I like wine. And nice restaurants. Heck, I’d like to have a nice car someday. Scary realization. Yes, I am young and I do have an urban profession. Hanous red head & I aren’t that dissimilar, ethnographically.
There are too many people like her that give the idea of being a “yuppie” a vile concept. Vain, material. Yick.
That has always turned me off. But something dawned on me. I am getting tired of spending time putting down the more typical work force types, and I am really getting sick of hearing it from others. How uncool it is to have a corporate job and work for clients, to work for “the man”, to strive for some nice things. Sure, I can see why that can be revolting—but the thing that bothers me is that its often a front. They talk about the evils of the corpo world but yet love to shop at Williams-Sonoma. Its like the dead-heads I used to see along Haight-Ashbury, all dirty and grimy, sitting on the street but then jumping into their Saab and driving off. Its so righteous. To me, that is getting old. Or I guess I am.
I'm tired of all the justification that goes into it. Like, sure, I have a coach bag but I am really an outdoorsman and vegetarian with a real conscience! Sure I go to work in a luxurious high-rise but you should see my closet at home! Its full of thrift clothes! I belong to a gym but I rock out to indy bands!
I love that we are all individuals, everyone is unique and that is what makes life so interesting. I can’t stand that beeyatch redhead with her obvious ways. I can’t stand the idea of doing the same thing and acting and looking like everyone else—but to spend time putting down those that do is almost worse than wearing a sweatshirt that reads “I LOVE MY BEEMER!”
OK, I am off to the squash courts and I will try to not be embarassed about it.
