I woke up this morning before the sun and shot gunned a cold venti americano before I made the dogs their daily breakfast of nutrient-enriched and vitamin-fortified homemade gruel. But the small one likes to eat her own feces, so I assume she doesn’t have much to complain about when it comes to meals, flavour-wise.
After getting back from trying to run for the first time in a fortnight, day was just starting to break and the condo-towers of south downtown were starting to show their silhouettes against the morning mist. From the porch, you couldn’t see the street or across water to Vancouver Proper, making it feel like you’re living in the clouds. Like the Jetsons. Like Bespin. Like the Andes.
Now I sit in a jazzy coffee shop in the heart of Yuppytown. I don’t mind. Yuppies are good people in my books: hard workers, young, fashionable. Sure they take themselves a little too seriously, but at least they have some sort of direction. I wish I could say as much for the hipster/indie scene which I’m loosely affiliated with. When I asked a friend if they wanted to hang out in my neighbourhood, they declined, saying “the yuppies scare me.” I thought they were being pretentious at the time, but now after putting a little more thought into the comment, it makes sense. It makes sense that they’re scared.
I’d be scared too if I had to mingle with a community that mirrored mine in almost every way, only instead of valuing promisquity,debacchury and irony, they prefer careers, finances and fitness.
It’s like asking the street hockey team to play with Canucks. Like taking a dachshund to run with the great danes.
But what’s hipper than taking control of your life and being upwardly mobile? Given the choice, I’d rather work a 9-5 at a job I love in my chosen career than do blow at some house party while listening to some jagoff go on about the new animal collective. While they’re both young and urban, only the professional is really making a difference.
I must be getting older.
