This is My Girlfriend and I'm Completely in Love With Her

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.”