Let’s be real, guys. I’m blonde, I’m perky, and I’m obsessed with brunch. I own a pair of shoes that say “Rosé All Day.” I Instagram everything, I used to be a ballerina, and I listen to TSwift unironically. I have an ugly Christmas sweater (it’s got a cat and it lights up), and intense feelings about baby animals. Fall is my favorite season, I know at least six Starbucks baristas by name, and I go to a spin class that has special festive playlists for even the minor holidays.
Starting this blog has prompted so many people to tease that I’ve finally reached “ultimate basic status.” They’re people who love me – and they’re right – so please don’t waste your energy getting defensive on my behalf. But it did get me thinking. . . why does everyone act as though being “basic” is something shameful?
Frankly, I don’t see the problem in cooing over videos from The Dodo and exclaiming about “sweater weather.” If the worst thing someone can say about me is that I’m basic, then I think I’m doing alright in this life.
But perhaps more importantly, if someone calls me basic (and they actually intend it as an insult; they’re not just good-naturedly teasing), well. . . they haven’t really done their research. They haven’t even attempted to get to know me. They’ve swiped through my social media profiles and glimpsed my yoga pants and they’ve made a fatal error – they’ve assumed things.
They don’t know that one of the first things my mom taught me before she sent me to school was how to throw a proper punch. They don’t know that I’m terrible at Zumba, that I hate most pumpkin spice lattes, and that I’ve never gotten highlights. They don’t know that I scream at the television when the game’s going poorly, that I dislike everything about baking, and that I’m not a fan of chick-flicks but can pretty much quote every nerdy fandom movie out there. They don’t know that I’ve helped multiple people change tires and jump-start their cars, but I’ve never had a damsel-in-distress moment myself, because The Blueberry’s trunk is pretty much stocked for the apocalypse. And yeah, OK, the toolbox in my car is hot pink. . . but my dad hand-painted the tools and gave it to me for Christmas a few years ago, and you’re either going to find that adorable or you’re completely heartless.
I like who I am. It took me a while, and by no means do I believe that I’m perfect, but I know exactly what I stand for, how I want to treat others, and why I’m going to do my best to make the world a better place. That knowledge is powerful. It gives me the confidence to do little things, like photographing my latte art, even as my friends are rolling their eyes. But it also gives me the confidence to do big, important, necessary, and uncomfortable things, like speaking up when I think something is unjust or unwise.
Yes, there are huge parts of my personality that fit into my demographic’s stereotypes. That’s what makes all of those “basic” jokes funny – there are some obvious truths to them. But at the end of the day, I have my own thoughts and opinions, and I don’t judge yours based upon whether or not you wear leggings as pants. I know that I’m smart (usually), and that I’m capable (unless there’s a spider involved), and that there’s a lot of depth to me beneath the bubbly, blonde-girl surface.
So on behalf of basic girls everywhere, I’d like to say: call us basic all you want, because we don’t really care. And besides, our brunches are better.
*Main image via Pexels