When Hipsters Fall in Love
A few months ago I was in a loud, crowded bar with some friends
from college. One of these guys, D, could probably be considered a hipster by
most standards. He has a cool haircut and like, a mustache. So I guess that
counts. He was with his girlfriend, who has enough 90’s style going on to also come
off as pretty hip. They sat close to each other at the bar as we all caught up
with our friend who was in from out of town.
It’s worth noting that the venue was sort of a hipster
watering hole. I can’t for the life of me figure out if the signature frozen
cocktails thing is supposed to be ironic or not, and that stresses me out a
little. Choosing not to advertise that the burger is grass fed definitely feels
like “the next thing” to me.
We were all shouting over the music, I was
characteristically flirting with the bartender. Now, as someone who works in
the service industry, when the bar is three deep, I never ask for anything with
more than two ingredients. Three, if you count ice. And definitely nothing that
requires stirring or muddling or blending. My usual shift drink is “bourbon in
a cup”. I’m in the know.
Of course, D’s girlfriend ordered a piña colada. I was
mortified. The bartender didn’t miss a beat, retreating to his post at the
blender. I wasn’t sure if she had ordered it ironically or not, either option
was sort of embarrassing. Because piña coladas aren’t just a pain in the ass to
make, they’re also inherently lame. After a few moments and a lot of noise, she
had a giant tulip glass with a cherry on top. I looked down at my whisky soda
and felt like a pro.
“I don’t care, I love piña coladas,” she shouted at the top
of her lungs, “I think they’re amazing!” I was shocked by her enthusiasm. Next,
D turned toward me and yelled “This is my girlfriend, and I’m completely in
love with her.”
It felt like it had been a lifetime since I’d heard anybody
say anything so… straightforward. This is my girlfriend. This woman. This woman
is my girlfriend. Not “this girl I’m hooking up with” or “someone I’m seeing”
or “my… friend”. My girlfriend.
My last boyfriend probably referred to me as his girlfriend…
once. In a year and a half. I think we’d been seeing each other for about three
months when I told him I loved him. He didn’t tell me he loved me until about
six months after that. And he hated PDA. We’d walk down the street and I would
fantasize about him reaching out and taking my hand, or putting his arm around
me. It never happened.
So the words “This is my girlfriend and I’m completely in
love with her”… yeah, that was a lot. But
it wasn’t just about my ex. All of that distance, the not talking about
feelings and not holding hands and not embracing titles… it somehow felt normal
to me. Or like something that should be normal. We were the hipsters. We had a
hipster relationship. And as a recent transplant, I’m sure on some level the
whole thing felt very “Brooklyn” to me.
It also felt “adult”. Oh, we don’t need titles, we know how
we feel about each other (of course, we didn’t). And “girlfriend”… what a
juvenile term. No no, we’re just two humans floating along here, if our courses
happen to run parallel for awhile, so be it. After all, “girlfriends” become
fiancées, and fiancées become wives. And really, who does that? Marriage?
Children? Plans? How passé."Yeah... I'll just text you later."
I didn’t think that we were inventing this model of
relationship. After all, in college it seemed like everyone was just sort of
“hooking up”. And isn’t life in Brooklyn just like college, minus the books?
The thing is, I wanted to be a girlfriend. And I wanted a
boyfriend. I wanted to call him my boyfriend so badly. In acting classes you
talk about your “cap”—how your character knows she’s gotten what she wants. My
cap would have been him looking me in the eye and saying: “Annika, you’re my
girl, and I love you.”
How could I possibly admit that? That’s so uncool. I can’t
be one of those “girls” that “wants” a “boyfriend”. It’s undignified. It’s old
fashioned. So direct. So romantic. So lame.
And after all, the crux of the hipster identity is an
eschewal of all things direct. Nothing too one-on, always through a haze of
smoke and in quotes. You can’t actually just like a piña colada. They have to
be funny. You can’t simply think they’re “amazing” and enjoy them. And you
can’t just go around telling people that you love your girlfriend! Am I right?
But I thought it was… beautiful. Am I allowed to use that
word? It was beautiful. I was… moved. Yikes. Feeling… feelings…. Not cool.
Suddenly I wanted to go to the beach and drink piña coladas and fall in love
and listen to the Beatles. All the things that normal people do. Obvious
things. This is my life and I enjoy it. This is my family and they are
important to me. This is my girlfriend and I am completely in love with her.
As the weeks went by I felt a cynicism that had become
embedded in my psyche start to work its way out. D and his girlfriend are
younger than I am, but I felt no obligation to discount their love, in spite of
my own recent relationship difficulties. I adored seeing them together. And not
like they were pets, or something. Not because it was cute. On the contrary, it
was inspirational. The springtime PDA on the streets of Brooklyn started to
feel like an array of exotic birds. I saw these souls as brave, their birdsong
ringing something like “It can be cool to be in love. Or maybe it’s not cool,
we actually couldn’t care less.” The oppression of winter had lifted, and
people could help but celebrate by touching each other.
Love isn’t needing to be touched. It’s not a girlish fantasy
about someone holding your hand. It’s a force that courses through you so
vigorously, you can’t help but extend to other people.
A week later I sat in the living room of that bartender’s
apartment, the one who had so chipperly made D’s girlfriend a piña colada. He
played me a song on the acoustic guitar and he sang. He told me he was a
hopeless romantic. I know that you’re rolling your eyes. Six months ago, I too would
have cringed at the concept of the whole scene. You know what? It was fine. It
was fun. And that’s OK.
Because I don’t need to be cool. And I don’t need to “act” “grownup”.
You know what’s grown up? Neither do I, obviously. But I have an inkling that it
might have something to do with acknowledging what you want, and being
realistic in how you go about making yourself happy.
Last week it was late and I was sitting at the bar at the
hipster watering hole, waiting for that same bartender to finish his shift so
that we could leave together. He was engaged in a conversation with some guys
who were pretty certain they were right about whatever it was they were saying.
I sat there idly playing with a cherry, eventually tying the knot in a stem in
my mouth. I handed my bartender friend the fruits of my labor, and he laughed.
“Can I just interrupt you guys for one second?” He cut off their
discussion, holding up the knotted cherry stem. “Do you guys see this? This
woman is my girlfriend, and I am completely in love with her.”
