Skip to main content

Embracing the Basic

As most people know, I am a huge reality TV fan. Not in an "oh, yeah, it's guilty pleasure that I watch when nothing else is on!" way. Like, in a "Lisa Vanderpump is my role model and I love Vanderpump Rules and The Real Housewives more than I love anything else right now" kind of way. So much so, that I recently bought Vanderpump star, Stassi Schroders book, Next Level Basic where she talks about taking the narrative of being basic back from haters and embracing it. This is the art of the basic bitch, and I am here to discuss how it is a counter-narrative to hating things that predominately women have made popular.


According to Dictionary.com, "In slang, basic characterizes someone or something as unoriginal, unexceptional, and mainstream. A basic girl—or basic bitch as she is often insulted—is said to like pumpkin spice lattes, UGG boots, and taking lots of selfies, for instance."


Now, I trade in the pumpkin spice lattes for hazelnut lattes. I go to Starbucks so much my bank account is actually appalled at my addiction. I have worn UGG boots before, leggings as pants are my go-to, and Taylor Swift and Halsey are my two favorite singers. I have been to every Taylor Swift concert since her "Speak Now" tour with the exception to "1989" because I was too poor and waited too long, It is truly my life's biggest regret and the time I touched her hand is still the greatest day of my life. Sometimes Sunday afternoon brunch consisting of bottomless mimosas with my two closest friends is the only thing that gets me through the week. I LOVE romantic comedies. The cheesier the better. Retail therapy is actual therapy. Astrology is hella cool. Fight me on this.


Here's where I stop telling everyone how basic I am and start taking the definition and word back. I used to hide my interests and hobbies from people because I didn't want to seem too mainstream. Not in a hipster "I'm way too cool and unimpressed to unironically know every word to every TSwift song" way, but in a "I am not going to be taken seriously as a woman and academic if I admit this" way. I consider myself to be a literary scholar in training so I can't possibly like things that others see as "unoriginal" or "unexceptional," right? I was so wrong. You see, that's the problem with not admitting to liking mainstream or popular things. They're popular for a reason and you shouldn't be ashamed to like something just because it's "unoriginal." The truth is, nothing is really original in the first place, so who even cares? Like what you like and be proud of it. Being basic is not an insult. In fact, it is my humble opinion that hating on other people for liking things and using their interests as insults against them does not make you cool or original. It just makes you a jerk.


So, this is my counter-narrative. I realize it's not life changing or really that important in the grand scheme of the mess that the world is today, but hey, I've learned to take the word basic back and evolve into the most basic bitch I can be. I'm here to say you can be basic and be an academic. Intelligence is not exclusive from the mainstream.


Here's to my fellow humans that unashamedly blast the top 100 in their cars at full volume, watch reality TV, say "like" way too much, and love a good latte from Starbucks. Here's to my humans that can do all of this and still talk politics, defend their thesis, and engage in intellectual debate.
Image result for "I brake for birds" gifRelated image




Comments

  1. I was going to write about something similar and you've said it so well! P.S. The New Girl gif is perfect.

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

"You don't look like your dad!" Tales of Legal Adoption

"You don't look like your dad. You must be the spitting image of your mother!" or "Your brothers look just like your dad! I bet you take after your momma." I heard these statements a lot growing up. And it's true. I don't look like my dad. And for a while, I didn't really look like my mom. I do now, but that isn't the point. You see, my dad adopted me when I was around six or seven years old. He had been a part of my life, for, well, all of it. When my mother and biological father (sometimes I refer to him as my sperm donor, because I think it's funny, but his name is Chris), got divorced, my dad, Kenny, married my mom resulting in a blended family of me, who was biologically my mom's, and my two brothers, who were biologically his. Suddenly I went from being the only child to being the middle child in a family dynamic that takes a lot of explaining to do. They say divorce and the things I supposedly went through in my early childhood...

No Calling, No Problem

I have no calling in a world where we all wonder what we're meant to do, who we're supposed to be. My mom called me the other day to tell me one of my childhood friends would be moving to my hometown soon because her husband had accepted a job with the Baptist church next door to her Methodist church. I don’t know why she thinks I give a shit about small town gossip or any news that concerns the church seeing as how she’s very aware of how I feel about organized religion. Nevertheless, she has nothing else to tell me because her world is much smaller than mine. “He used to be an airplane pilot,” she says. “Then why is he going to be a youth minister? How will they survive? Where will the money come from?” I ask, appalled. I know from my instagram that his wife is a stay-at-home mom of three. “It doesn’t matter, they’ll figure it out,” she brushes it off. “He has a calling to work for the Lord.” A calling. A goddamn calling. Half of my life, I waited for some fucking ca...

Melanie and Melanie: Growing up with Separated Lesbian Moms in the South

I came from a sperm bank, well I came from a vagina, but first I came from a sperm bank. That’s not generally my opener, but we need to make it clear. My moms discovered their sexuality long before I came along in 1992. When I was three, they separated. Gay marriage had not been legalized up to this point, so there was no divorce process involved. However, my mama, Sharon, she gave birth to me, and she wanted full custody of me. My other mom, Sylvia, worked tirelessly to pay for my existence and Sharon’s pregnancy care; she loved me, and I was her child no matter what. They went to court, and Sylvia became one of the first lesbian parents in the state of Texas to receive shared custody of a child that was not biologically hers. In some cases, this still doesn’t always happen, particularly in cases with gay and lesbian parents, regardless of how involved the parent is in their child’s life. “Who do you want to live with?” Flash forward seven years or so, and I’m being given more...