Posts Tagged ‘fixie’

Hipster’s Don’t Wear Glitter

October 23, 2015

I protested over some of the best sushi I have had in recent memory.

My friend looked at the waitress and asked her, “does she look like a hipster to you?”

The Japanese waitress looked at me, smiled, looked at my friend smiled, “she looks like a hipster.”

Damn it man.

My friend was joking, poking fun at me, but I do have some tell-tale signs of hipsterdom.

I work for tech.

Although I do not work in tech.

My family is a tech family, no getting around it, just none.

I work in the Mission District of San Francisco.

San Francisco is already up there on the hipster list, but the Mission?

Please.

It is über hipster.

And that’s not because there are so many Uber drivers in the bicycle lane waiting to pick up their fares from Tacolicious or Mosto or Dosa or Bar Tartine or dropping them off in front of Rhea’s Deli to get that one sandwich that goes so god damn good with that tall boy of Pabst Blue Ribbon that was drank at Mission Dolores Park that one day last week when the weather was so good.

“Come on!” My friend exclaimed, “you ride a fixie!”

Granted.

Yes.

I do.

“You worked at a bicycle company in the Mission!”

Yes.

I did that too.

I remember when I posted a photograph on Instagram, before everyone fucking knew what Instagram was (my Paris friend was shocked that I had been on Instagram so long, nearly four years, she hadn’t realized that the app has been around that long, but yeah, I got on the bandwagon awhile ago–the app just celebrated five years or publishing the selfie, remember what that used to be?  Literally, a self-portrait, I did a few of those before Instagram, in pencil) of my bicycle and one of the dad’s I used to nanny for commented:

“The hipster just got more hip, is that possible?”

The mom of the play date at work asked me on Tuesday night if I knew so and so, “you know, she’s really cool, and hip, like you.”

I don’t know the person she was referring to, but I can infer the compliment.

“Oh, we are going to be the envy of the neighborhood,” a mom who I ended up leaving after a really uncomfortable week of being overly micro managed, said as I agreed to be her nanny.

“We got our own hipster nanny!” She exclaimed and gave me a hug.

Note to self, if they hug you that much before the job is yours they might be neurotic.

I didn’t even know there was a candidate for nanny that was hipster, must be a subculture.

Speaking of.

Here’s a great definition for hipster courtesy of Wikipedia:

The hipster subculture is one of affluent or middle class young Bohemians who reside in gentrifying neighborhoods,[1][2] broadly associated with indie and alternative music, a varied non-mainstream fashion sensibility (including vintage and thrift store-bought clothes), generally progressive political views, organicand artisanal foods, and alternative lifestyles.[3][4][5] The subculture typically consists of white millennials living in urban areas.[6][7] It has been described as a “mutating, trans-Atlantic melting pot of styles, tastes and behavior”.[8]

Hmm.

Let’s see.

I like subculture.

Ok, I can see that, ok, fine, a little hipstery there.

Affluent or middle class?

Nope.

Nope.

Nope.

But then again, better off than I have ever been and were I living in the mid west I would be considered middle class.

Of course, I wouldn’t be making half of what I make here in the San Francisco as a nanny.

No way.

No how.

And in San Francisco I am not middle class and certainly not affluent.

Bohemian?

Sure.

I will go with that, although I think I am more of a sparkle pony than a Bohemian, but I have some of the trappings, I like art, I like music that doesn’t play on the top 40 radio stations.

When, in fact, was the last time I listened to the radio?

Oh.

Ha.

Yesterday, in the car with the mom on the way to the boys appointment to get their annual flu shot.

I got mine too.

I remember listening to the lyrics of the song that was playing and wondering, who the fuck writes this?

Awfulness.

But I love art and that is very Bohemian.

So ok, a couple of points on the hipster scale and I have tattoos and yes, I do have a one speed custom bicycle, but not because I am affluent, but because I worked in a bicycle shop and not because I had some rabid interest in bicycles, it sort of fell in my lap, my friend was the General Manager and really wanted me to come and work for him.

So I did.

And I built a bike.

But my bike, despite having hipster tendencies–one speed, custom paint job, Italian drop bars, steel frame–is so not a hipster ride.

The aesthetics are totally skewed.

Hello.

I have a deep midnight blue paint job with Rock Star Sparkle top coat.

Not one coat.

But two.

No hipster in their right mind has a whip with glitter.

Or a leather seat with embossed roses from Italy.

Just me.

What else?

Oh yeah, gentrifying neighborhoods.

Yeah.

I used to live in the Mission, but no longer.

I lived at 20th and York, paid $650 for my room with its own bath in a five bedroom house with four other girls.

I bet now that rent for my room would be $3,000.

I lived at 22nd and Alabama with a woman from Northern Italy who had rent control from having lived in the top of this Victorian forever and paid $500 for a huge room with everything included.

I also lived in an enormous Victorian on 23rd and Capp before it was gentrified, thank you very much, for $450 a month plus utilities.

God.

I have people question why the hell I moved out, but if you knew who my room-mate was you probably wouldn’t have moved in.

The last place I lived in the Mission was a tiny in-law at 22nd and Folsom and I paid $750 including all utilities.

That was about two and a half, three years ago, right as it was getting crazy.

Now.

Well.

Fuck.

Whatever.

Everybody know how expensive it is to rent in San Francisco, and now I live in the Outer Sunset, where I am very happy and content to live.

Although it too is getting a little on the hipster side.

I’m definitely progressive, I definitely eat a lot of organic food, ok, sigh, I am looking more like a hipster every word I type.

Me thinks the lady doth protest too much.

I wear glasses with oversized wood frames.

I listen to alternative music.

Ever hear of jazz?

Yeah, like that.

But there’s a lot of music that I listen to that is definitely not mainstream, is underground, and is alternative.

Fuck.

I guess I am a hipster.

Wait.

Millennials.

Nope.

Fuck that.

I am so not a Millennial.

Not by a long shot.

I’m way too old.

Gen X thank you very much.

There.

See.

Not a hipster.

Well.

I guess I have some characteristics.

(Wrecking Ball coffee in my cupboard from Washington State)

Converse on my feet.

Fixie in the garage.

Yes I did own a vintage Vespa, well, I thought it was a Vespa.

But.

I protest.

I am still to glittery to be hip.

And I eschew cigarettes, tall boys, tech talk, Tinder, festival clothes, floppy hats, jean shorts (unless I’m rocking some funky tights), happy hour in the Mission, and snobbery.

See.

I’m too nice to be a hipster.

So there.

“I’m just joking!” My friend laughed at me, “you know I’m just joking.”

I do.

I do, I know.

I am willing to admit that I am often mistaken for a hipster but as soon as I wave my hand and give you a hug the truth comes out.

Oh!

Your’s so nice.

You must be from the Midwest!

Yup.

I’m not hipster.

I’m a Sconnie.

Long Legs

February 24, 2015

Long day.

“Look at your legs!” The kid passing by me on his fixie shouted.

“Thanks, I’m twice your age, I don’t think I can keep up,” I shouted back.

He had whipped past me and gone up the right side of the flow of cars crossing Market Street at Church.

I, having discovered, weeks ago during my commute, that unless there’s a MUNI train screaming behind me, to take the far left lane that is specifically only MUNI and taxis–thereby avoiding the commuting traffic at Church and Market and also the drivers turning in and out of SafeWay.

“What the fuck?” The kid saw me angle left and whip around the N-Judah that was waiting to cross over to Duboce.  “How did you do that?!  Sneaky lady!”

I laughed.

I got to have some tricks up my sleeves.

“You’re not twice my age, no way,” the kid replied.

He was right.

I’m 42 and he was 32.

Still.

That’s ten years and I worked a 9 hour day today.

My 42-year-old legs, though lovely to look upon whilst riding my one speed from the Mission to the Outer Sunset, were tired.

Monday’s are always a busy day, a long day, full of stuff and things and work, work, work.

But today there was the extra hectic of a grandparent visit, construction happening at the house and the house next door, visits from out-of-town friends, and swimming lessons.

Whew.

I was never once alone in the house.

Or at the park, grandparent’s tagged along on the outing in the morning.

Fortunately I have gotten used to interacting with a lot of people while working for this family and I feel like I can roll with the punches.

I generally keep a pretty good demeanor and keep myself occupied.

It does, however, mean I was unable to take phone calls, make phone calls or really respond to texts messages during the day.

I realized that I hadn’t talked to anyone outside of work until 6:30 p.m. tonight when I rolled up into the Inner Sunset.

I was grateful to sit and be quiet though, sometimes that’s all I need, I don’t need to check in, I just need to claim my seat and sit.

Then pedal my bicycle on out towards the beach and the smell of the ocean.

Monday’s always go by quick, I tell myself this when I am eating my morning oatmeal and drinking my coffee, waiting for the caffeine to hit while I write my morning pages.

I was writing this morning about how I feel a little stuck on the dating front, I exhausted my list of guys and I haven’t met anyone new online that is a good match and well, what now?

I had a friend suggest I go perform, or try to perform, at the Moth tomorrow night at Public Works.

I was tempted.

I even came up with a few ideas about a piece.

The topic?

Heartbreak.

Heh.

I thought I could tell a story about red flags.

And there’s some funny ones that have come up for me and I probably could tell a five-minute story on them.

Truth though.

I’m tired thinking about it.

I have a long week this week with the grandparents in town at work, and the graduate school interview on Thursday, and the scooter getting checked out on Wednesday night after work, and stuff and things that I normally do, plus a workshop that I agree to run on Saturday.

I mean.

Sitting here at my table this morning sipping coffee and my whole week is mapped out and I wonder, well, fuck, the next thing I know it’s going to be next Monday and the whole thing will start-up again.

I felt exhausted even before starting.

I shook it off.

I had a really lovely, relaxing, mellow day yesterday and I bank rolled that into today, keeping my spirits up, not getting involved in drama, doing my job, keeping my side of the street clean, and going to do my commitment.

That leaves little time in my day to write out an extra piece and practice it.

Anyway, the contemplation process was short and sweet.

Not this time.

I can and will make time to do things, I will, I thought, I have to, if I’m going to date I definitely have to.

There’s a balance and I know it can be struck.

But I am, really, fresh out of ideas for the dating thing.

Y’all have any suggestions throw them my way.

The best thing I can think is to not isolate, and yes, I know that going and doing something like the Moth would be a great social event to check out, I just find it a serious challenge to add extra things onto my week day evenings.

I will though.

If I have to.

I’m willing to do the work, but right now, I don’t even know what that is.

I like myself, natch.

I take good care of myself.

I try to look cute when I leave the house for work, you never know when someone might be looking, at the “those legs” or that hair.

Or the glasses.

I got a lot of compliments on the frames today.

I am quite pleased with them.

They are outside my box, and yet, a perfect fit for me.

So how to get outside the dating box?

I tried Tinder and that was just nasty.

I’m not having much luck on OkCupid.

Unless you count offers in Scranton.

Sorry dude.

I don’t want to date outside of San Francisco, let alone outside of California.

I asked out the ten.

I did get two dates out of that.

So cool.

But what next?

I really would like to just magically get asked out.

Ah.

Magical thinking.

Fucks me every time.

I used to have magical thinking around my weight.

Turns out I had to have a huge bottom around it, get broken down, and find spiritual help outside my own brain.

Basically, I had to do a lot of work.

I did the same with my finances.

I had to do a lot of work to get out debt, stay out of debt, and live prosperously (thanks Jerrold Mundis).

I know the same is applicable to dating.

“You know what’s been nice about this graduate school deal,” she told me on the phone yesterday, “it’s not fast and wild and crazy, it’s been a slow, serene process, where you’ve taken things a step at a time and let go of the results the entire time.  It’s been pretty amazing to watch it all unfold.”

I know that’s a correct assessment.

Those things worth having are worth working for.

I don’t mind doing the work.

That’s not the conundrum.

I don’t know what the work is anymore.

So, this week, unless I get some stellar suggestions about dating.

I’m going to focus on taking care of myself and doing the things that I need to do for graduate school and doing my job at work.

As well as doing the deal.

Which is a non-negotiable deal.

The dating will probably happen like every thing else.

When I am not paying attention to it.

I’ll get popped on the head, or in the heart.

And I’ll be off on another adventure.

Such is life.

My life anyway.


%d bloggers like this: