Midwest sensibilities.
I am constantly frustrated by the midwest because of its sweatpants culture. I've never been able to walk around in public in sweatpants, track pants, workout pants--any pants that have an elastic waist and whose primary purpose is to facilitate working out or sleeping. Sweatpants is a way of life here, but to me all it screams is "I don't fucking care." I'll be frank with you--I care. But only enough not to wear sweatpants in public. And to shower once a day. That is the extent of my regimen.
This past weekend I went to visit my sister in Williamsburg. Being in Williamsburg is a lot like taking a long, prerecorded tour through a natural history museum specializing in the perverse habits of the perpetually trendsetting 20-somethings who proliferate through this oddly sought after neighborhood.
When I landed in Williamsburg, the throngs of self-consciously done up hipsters dazzled me with their impossibly tight pants and their perfectly placed bangs. A part of me was excited to be walking amongst these intentionally accidental fashionistas, whose collective outfits casually represented hundreds of hours spent in thrift stores, boutiques, and other purveyors of one-of-a-kind style. And of course, there were no sweatpants in sight. I'm guessing that even hipsters have to work out to maintain their lithe physiques, so it's quite possible that to and from the gym they might be caught wearing sweatpants. But like elusive snow leopards, you know they exist but you'll probably never see one.
By the end of my long weekend in Williamsburg, I was physically exhausted--the shine of hipster culture had really begun to wear me down. Walking down some street around 11:00 am on Sunday morning, I looked at the little piles of hip refuse littering the streets, from empty boxes of parliament lights to a forlorn chuck taylor cast off in a dark puddle of something on the sidewalk. As we passed row after row of rental housing, I caught in the corner of my eye a garbage picker going through Williamsburg's finest trash. In addition to the usual paper waste, food stuffs, and empty bottles of liquor common to human waste, this particular apartment's trash looked like an American Apparel ad had overdosed and vomited into it. Random bits of gold lame peeped out of the black trash bags like so many venomous snakes looking for their next victim. Vintage t-shirts waited to be snatched up and reinjected into the veins of some rogue hipster's closet, who would proudly be able to claim "I found it in the trash."
They say our waste says more about our culture than anything else. In Williamsburg, there is no waste. Everything gets recycled, picked through, and saved for the next time it comes into fashion. Standing on the Bedford Ave. platform waiting for the L train, I sighted a pair of old school nike hi-tops, the ones with slightly puffy ankles and atrocious neon coloring. They were ugly, especially paired with primary blue skin-tight leggings. These shoes were a train wreck, and I couldn't take my eyes off them. I judged them for their disgustingness and in that moment found myself feeling hopelessly...practical. I don't have the strength to dive through piles of clothing in garbage bins and thrift stores anymore; it's too exhausting. And I certainly don't have the guts to wear downright ugly shoes in the name of style.
I felt hopelessly unhip and tragically defeated by Williamsburg, like a midwestern tourist who had accidentally wandered onto the set of some ill-conceived Flashdance remake. The usual comfort I take in being dressed nicely but unremarkably began to weigh upon me as I felt the overwhelming burden of being, for lack of a better word, normal. Normal doesn't fly in Williamsburg, that is, unless it's coming back.
As we continued our trudge to breakfast that Sunday morning (at a diner called "Diner" no less), I felt the tiny midwesterner in me growing larger and larger, quietly screaming inside for cleaner streets, simpler haircuts, friendlier waitstaff, cleaner restrooms, trees--all the things I've grown used to living in the wide open middle swath of the country where space is ample and people just don't really care.
Waiting outside of Diner for a table, I happened to look over at the cafe next door. Sitting outside in 25 degree temperatures, smoking a cigarette, drinking a cup of french roast, and reading what might have been Anais Nin or Proust, was a disheveled young lady wearing an oversized sweater with a giant antlered stag knit into it and sweatpants. Sweatpants. This little slice of home brought me back, reminded me of the strange things that connect us, and the delight of being a stranger in a city that allows you to do whatever the fuck you want.
Williamsburg is discriminating, but it's an equal opportunity discriminator. Show up here in sweatpants and an ugly sweater and who knows, you're either a Wisconsin mom or the coolest kid in class for a day. East meets Midwest, and as it turns out, we're not so different after all.
This past weekend I went to visit my sister in Williamsburg. Being in Williamsburg is a lot like taking a long, prerecorded tour through a natural history museum specializing in the perverse habits of the perpetually trendsetting 20-somethings who proliferate through this oddly sought after neighborhood.
When I landed in Williamsburg, the throngs of self-consciously done up hipsters dazzled me with their impossibly tight pants and their perfectly placed bangs. A part of me was excited to be walking amongst these intentionally accidental fashionistas, whose collective outfits casually represented hundreds of hours spent in thrift stores, boutiques, and other purveyors of one-of-a-kind style. And of course, there were no sweatpants in sight. I'm guessing that even hipsters have to work out to maintain their lithe physiques, so it's quite possible that to and from the gym they might be caught wearing sweatpants. But like elusive snow leopards, you know they exist but you'll probably never see one.
By the end of my long weekend in Williamsburg, I was physically exhausted--the shine of hipster culture had really begun to wear me down. Walking down some street around 11:00 am on Sunday morning, I looked at the little piles of hip refuse littering the streets, from empty boxes of parliament lights to a forlorn chuck taylor cast off in a dark puddle of something on the sidewalk. As we passed row after row of rental housing, I caught in the corner of my eye a garbage picker going through Williamsburg's finest trash. In addition to the usual paper waste, food stuffs, and empty bottles of liquor common to human waste, this particular apartment's trash looked like an American Apparel ad had overdosed and vomited into it. Random bits of gold lame peeped out of the black trash bags like so many venomous snakes looking for their next victim. Vintage t-shirts waited to be snatched up and reinjected into the veins of some rogue hipster's closet, who would proudly be able to claim "I found it in the trash."
They say our waste says more about our culture than anything else. In Williamsburg, there is no waste. Everything gets recycled, picked through, and saved for the next time it comes into fashion. Standing on the Bedford Ave. platform waiting for the L train, I sighted a pair of old school nike hi-tops, the ones with slightly puffy ankles and atrocious neon coloring. They were ugly, especially paired with primary blue skin-tight leggings. These shoes were a train wreck, and I couldn't take my eyes off them. I judged them for their disgustingness and in that moment found myself feeling hopelessly...practical. I don't have the strength to dive through piles of clothing in garbage bins and thrift stores anymore; it's too exhausting. And I certainly don't have the guts to wear downright ugly shoes in the name of style.
I felt hopelessly unhip and tragically defeated by Williamsburg, like a midwestern tourist who had accidentally wandered onto the set of some ill-conceived Flashdance remake. The usual comfort I take in being dressed nicely but unremarkably began to weigh upon me as I felt the overwhelming burden of being, for lack of a better word, normal. Normal doesn't fly in Williamsburg, that is, unless it's coming back.
As we continued our trudge to breakfast that Sunday morning (at a diner called "Diner" no less), I felt the tiny midwesterner in me growing larger and larger, quietly screaming inside for cleaner streets, simpler haircuts, friendlier waitstaff, cleaner restrooms, trees--all the things I've grown used to living in the wide open middle swath of the country where space is ample and people just don't really care.
Waiting outside of Diner for a table, I happened to look over at the cafe next door. Sitting outside in 25 degree temperatures, smoking a cigarette, drinking a cup of french roast, and reading what might have been Anais Nin or Proust, was a disheveled young lady wearing an oversized sweater with a giant antlered stag knit into it and sweatpants. Sweatpants. This little slice of home brought me back, reminded me of the strange things that connect us, and the delight of being a stranger in a city that allows you to do whatever the fuck you want.
Williamsburg is discriminating, but it's an equal opportunity discriminator. Show up here in sweatpants and an ugly sweater and who knows, you're either a Wisconsin mom or the coolest kid in class for a day. East meets Midwest, and as it turns out, we're not so different after all.
Labels: new york, tourism, williamsburg, wisconsin
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home