I’ve Failed At Being Basic

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I've Failed At Being Basic

It’s not like I haven’t tried to be basic. I can rattle off dozens of different types of IPAs, I frequent brew pubs and craft beer fests, go to ironic ethnic festivals, and even take people up on bottomless mimosa brunches when the opportunity arises. We have Starbucks and pumpkin/mint-spiced (#teampumpkin) things, but the lines are long and my discretionary spending budget is already at an all-time low because I have a wedding in Denver, Nashville and Pittsburgh already on next year’s wedding season docket. I am a pretty damn good skier, but my outfit is my hunting camo because I prefer function over style, and where I live, this is not frowned on but strongly encouraged.

Frankly, being basic is difficult in my neck of the woods.

Some basic things like Instagram aren’t my style. The only pictures I take are of the #Munigolf places I go to that offer $25 18 holes and a beer (which can be found by following me on Twitter). I would rather put up pictures of my dogs sleeping with their mouth open or harassing the cats than put up an artfully crafted, free range dinner that would have been cheaper if I bought it at the restaurant. I hate Bloody Marys, scarves make me look like stupid and I passionately hate yoga (but not the pants).

That’s not to say I don’t have some basic tendencies, albeit my own take on it. I love farmer’s markets, even though I am usually in gym shorts or pajama pants rather than a Nordstrom fall collection ensemble. I’ve had quite a few pedicures, but only because caddying made my feet look like I’ve been Flintstoning myself around the town. I own a total of zero vests, not because I hate them but because I’m built like Spongebob and vests emphasize that. Like, being built like a barrel doesn’t lend itself to being basic. When your neck is 18.5 inches, finding clothing is pretty difficult. My 36×30 can be different at any of the basic dude kind of stores, but that’s not an issue because there are no outlet stores near me.

I never knew brunch was such a big thing. After writing for this site for eight months or so and seeing grand tales of brunch, menus, elaborate alcoholic breakfast drinks and the culture that goes along with brunch, I feel like I’m missing out.

Sure, I knew about mimosas, the wonderful creation that is chicken and waffles and those fancy items you see in upscale restaurants like soufflés, quinoas and quiches. Maybe where I live is a few years behind the times or people are a bit too country, but it’s just not a thing here. I actually never realized brunch was a big thing anywhere until recently because breakfast was king in my household.

When I was growing up, my dad would make breakfast on most Sundays. Bacon, eggs, blueberry pancakes, pork roll, waffles, the list goes on. Screwdriver or mimosa in hand, my dad would crush breakfast. People from my neighborhood would come over for some coffee and deliciously-made breakfast before whatever big game started that day. On vacations, it was the same thing– get up, big breakfast early, hit the beach and grill for dinner. I guess I was spoiled by having an Iron Chef for a father.

Sometimes I get jealous of all these stories, articles and tidbits of information regarding Uber. I had to look it up because where I live, we aren’t even legally able to have Uber. The taxi company holds an ironclad stranglehold on the “getting places to and from while in pursuit of intoxication” market. The cabs are always stained, dirty and smelly. I am not one to drink and drive, so that means bumming rides, having a DD or walking. The way I look at it, the 2.5 miles there is usually downhill and the 2.5 miles back will burn off some of the damage and give me some time to sober up. Plus, anything is better than riding in our nasty cabs with suspect drivers.

Maybe I am a victim of location, of the culture of my moderately-sized mountainous college town that is called home by many, many mountain hippies, or maybe I’m just not cut out to be basic. I’ve made peace with this, but I still enjoy a good seasonal and I owned L.L. Bean duck boots before they were a basic bro general issue. I have no idea how Tinder, Instagram or Uber works, and I’ve accepted that. I have no idea what quinoa is and kale was always the food my friend’s iguana, Godzilla, ate.

All I know is I can make a rippin’ fire and drink Yuengling around said fire like no one else, I make some pretty solid deer jerky and tailgate with the best of ’em. That’s the definition of “basic” where I come from.

Image via YouTube

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