Sitting at my desk the other day, I began crafting a text on my new iPhone 6 Plus that’s making my hands feel incredibly tiny when a curious thing happened.
My phone just autocorrected "rose" to "rosé" for me. I'm such a basic bitch.
— Will deFries (@WilldeFries) July 23, 2015
Then, on Saturday, I went to the market with the pure intentions of buying dinner for a relaxed night in watching HBO. But that’s not what transpired. I walked out of there with a liter bottle of rosé, three avocados, bread (presumably for avocado toast aka Basic Fuel), and a six-pack of beer.
And it was at that moment I accepted what I had already known for years: I’m a basic bitch.
It’s not just because I really want to buy Aziz Ansari’s Modern Romance or because I’m fully convinced ginger Kombucha cures my hangovers. It’s also because I want to wear lululemon work out clothes. I want to send selfies on Snapchat of myself laying out. I want it all.
See, I began as being baseline basic at an early age. Growing up a full-blown mama’s boy who couldn’t spend the night at anyone’s house until deep into middle school, I was the most basic pre-teen kid at my school. Everything I owned had my initials on it, my favorite food was a boneless chicken breast marinated in fat free Italian dressing, and I refused to go to camp because I found the outdoors to be gross and dirty unless I was golfing or swimming at the pool. It was in my blood.
As I grew older, my basicicity only amplified. If you looked in my closet right now, you’d find a monogrammed turtleneck that I can’t wait to wear every Christmas. I sparingly use a $68 bergamot-scented lotion on my sunburns. Even today I can’t shower without using a loofah. While the surface of my internet history is sports related, digging deeper you’ll find an array of Refinery 29s and miscellaneous Tumblrs. Even on Instagram I follow Chrissy Teigen, Broad City, Yes Way Rosé, and all of the Jenners. It’s endless.
But, at the root of it all, I’m not even convinced being basic is that bad of a thing. Being a basic bitch is described as:
Someone who is unflinchingly upholding of the status quo and stereotypes of their gender without even realizing it. She engages in typical, unoriginal behaviors, modes of dress, speech, and likes. She is tragically/laughably unaware of her utter lack of specialness and intrigue. She believers herself to be unique, fly, amazing, and a complete catch, when really she is boring, painfully normal, and par. She believes her experiences to be crazy, wild, and different or somehow more special than everything that everybody else is doing, when really, almost everyone is doing or has done the exact same thing.
I may be in the minority here, but I’m not sold on the idea that being “different” is all that it’s cracked up to be. I love peer pressure and solidarity. When I’m at a restaurant and all of my friends order Dark & Stormies after I order a vodka soda, I’m the guy who hails down the waiter and says, “Actually, can I change my order to a Dark & Stormy?” When I’m having lunch at Nordstrom Cafe Bistro, I’m not trying to set myself apart. I’m trying to eat a niçoise salad with salmon because it’s tasty as hell and only 654 calories.
Being basic isn’t about being diverse. It’s about enjoying mid-summer iced Americanos with almond milk and taking photos of your duck boots on fallen piles of leaves come autumn. It’s about complimenting the warm brie at the wine tasting your friend coordinated for his girlfriend’s birthday and intentionally wearing a Masters polo to happy hour where you think someone may take some photos.
At the end of the day, isn’t being basic better than being bohemian or a scenester? Instead of coming off as a try-hard, I’m just floating along enjoying activities that I see all my WASP-y friends on Instagram partake in. You can’t criticize that because none of it is outlandish or over-the-top. If I want to go to a juice bar and ask for extra chia seeds in my smoothie, who are you to stop me? If you want to talk down on me for spending my Sunday at the Macy’s anniversary sale trying on Tommy Bahama shirts, be my guest. But I’m not just going to lie down and try to be different. This is who I am.
The next time you see a group of girls at an oyster bar talking about how much they love the new Chainsmokers song, just know that those are the girls I’m trying to be with. And when you see a group of dudes discussing their golf swings in the middle of a beer garden that serves buckets of Miller Lites, recognize that I’m probably en route to meet up with them. Because underneath these sun-faded pocket tees and J. Crew chinos, I’m completely comfortable with who I am. And who I am is a basic bitch.
If drinking rosé, loving brunch, and thinking The Mindy Project is legitimately funny is wrong, then I don’t know if I even want to be right. .