Basic Barnes & Noble B*tch
The older I get, the more I find myself coming to terms with my suppressed basic bitch traits—specifically the millennial variety. Turns out the dopamine hit I get from sitting in a Barnes & Noble café, drinking an off-brand Starbucks vanilla–matcha oat-milk latte (basic), surrounded by sickening consumerism hits HARD. I sparks joy, but am I cringe? I guess that’s what our 40s are for: fully embodying the cringe we hid from the world throughout our 20s. Would I RATHER be in an independantly owned bookstore with an overpriced hipster cortado? Maybe- but as I sit here, and I imagine how many words are in these books all around me, I’m sure that it’s in the billions. Billions of meticulously chosen words surround me in this nerd warehouse, and I’m not sorry that I like it.
The term “basic bitch” implies that if a girl or a woman likes something lots of other girls or women like, then her opinion or joy isn’t unique/edgy enough to be good. Not contrarian or masculine enough to be interesting. And to that I say: F* YOU.** Seriously. The idea that these tropes of girlhood have been belittled out of their cultural value is surely rooted in a twisted patriarchal mind tunnel I choose not to explore today.
I do love being a thought leader or early adopter of something that ends up gaining popularity—but should I abandon that interest when it becomes popular, or walk around loudly declaring that I liked it back when “obscure anecdotal fact no one cares about”? No. (TO be clear, this is something I do all the time) BUT NOT ANYMORE! Today’s Halloween and, while the veil is thin, I’m releasing my inner Basic Bitch and celebrating the cringe.
My Basic Bitch Top 10 (in no particular order):
Seasonal coffee drinks — I celebrate the first PSL of fall and the first eggnog latte of winter.
UGGs.
Taylor Swift (see previous post) and boy bands (*NSYNC girlie).
Romantasy novels: ACOTAR, Fourth Wing. Don’t get me started.
Avocado toast? Hell yeah.
Vision boards, palo santo, and crystals. All the woo-woo, baby.
Disneyland.
Cheerleading—loved it.
Fleetwood Mac “Silver Springs” lore + making it my karaoke song.
True-crime podcasts. Yes, I’ve seen MFM live three times.
Now the basic-bitch feminine Pilates teacher in me acknowledges the basic-bitch blog reader in you—and I raise my oat milk beverage high, under the shitty fluorescent bulbs of the local B&N to free us from the BB shackles that have restrained us for too long.
Exhibit A. My middle school bedroom.