This weekend, I found myself in line at the uber-hip Ritual while wearing black skinny jeans, a black tank top with sequinned words across my chest, a black North Face fleece tied around my waist and black men's Ben Sherman Shoes with orange stripes. No makeup. Greasy hair pulled back in a bun. Sunglasses.
The short version of my attire's explanation? Pajamas with the indecent bits replaced with whatever was on top of the laundry pile. It was pre-shower. 9:30 AM. In the Mission. The streets were empty except for a few folks obviously making their way home after unexpectedly sleeping elsewhere. The line for Tartine was the shortest I've ever seen. Given the lack of likelihood of public interaction with anyone other than the folks who'd seen me in my immediate post wake-up state, I put even less thought than I ordinarily do into my appearance. (Is it possible to have a negative amount of thought?)
While waiting in line for coffee, V and I amused ourselves watching the elaborate dance of the barrista. Imagine Tom Cruise in Cocktail, throwing cups, dancing, and spinning the espresso holder after each deliberate twist of the packer. Oh, but extremely pale, with long blond hair, super skinny, and a trimmed beard. So, if you take the actions of Cocktail Tom Cruise performed in a hipster coffee bar by a 70s rocker going for the Jesus look, then you've got a pretty good idea of the show.
Dancing barrista's sidekick was one of the lumberjack hipsters. You know the type: Plaid shirt. Skinny jeans on some beefy legs. Big unkempt beard. Converse.
While we stood a few patrons back, I watched Lumberjack pull Cocktail Jesus aside. He mouthed something and then motioned with his head in our direction.
As they started to look our way, I realized that my brain had read his lips, it had just taken a while to get to my head.
"White Trash"
I didn't really know what to do with this one. I glanced around the cafe and realized that I was, in fact, the only person in the entire shop in a tank top, and most definitely the only one in sequins.
Also, I'm a little on the voluptuous side for me right now (Thanks to my Dad's family's genes, when I gain weight I get big boobs that are out of proportion to the rest of my body. Thanks to my Mom's genes, I am very short, so a small numberical weight gain results in quite a bit of change. Also, thanks to my Mom's genes, weight gain that doesn't go to my boobs goes to my bubble butt. There are worse things in life.)
So, the sequins were actually splashed across my big chest. If you know much about the Mission hipsters, you know that a) very few of the women have much in the way of cleavage, and b) the ones that do try not to accentuate it. By glancing around, I realized I was one of the curviest people in the room, and my outfit screamed that I was obviously not uncomfortable about it. In fact, if I'm honest, compared to the way everyone else was dressed, it probably looked like I wanted to draw attention to my tits and ass.
Finally, part of the partial transition from PJs to street clothes was that I'd deigned to put on a bra. My brastraps, however, were not the right configuration for a tank top, so they were showing as well. And cream.
Before I could decide if I wanted to compose a reaction to the name-calling, I watched Cocktail Jesus look back from my direction and lean back to Lumberjack with his hand over his heart. "Looooove It." They grinned at each other, obviously thrilled with their own coolness and that of the people they serve their fucking awesome coffee. Blissful in their irony, they went back to the performance of their ritual of coffee making.
And that, my friends, is how I learned that at least on Memorial Day Weekend 2012, "White Trash" was actually a hipster compliment.
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