Pissed off about crime. Angry at the tabby cat five doors down who I think attacked my cat. Wearing Giorgio Beverly Hills unironically. Bitching at city council about potholes. Designing my house like I’m a Crystal Light-drinking 80s/90s housewife. Wearing eyeshadow and eyeliner to casual events. Adhering to noise ordinances. Dressing up like a European in a SoCal beach town that exclusively wears beanies and Patagonia puffers.
If my twenties in the aughts were my Forever 21-wearing, blackout-drunk dirtbag era, and my thirties were my festival-going, kundalini yoga bougie-hippie era, then my forties are my full-blown yuppie era. Now, I like quiet. I like soft rock (always have, but it’s really hit home this decade). I like luxury. Restaurants, not bars. A glass of wine, not shots or drugs. Things have changed.
I have a lot of opinions. Most of which I keep to myself irl. It’s tacky to say them out loud in-person without knowing your audience. I think of myself as a classic yuppie, not a modern yuppie. No, my era is between 1977-1992. Great yuppie years. When yuppies knew they were kind of assholes and judgmental, but dressed well, were at least entertaining, and had some class and decorum.
You don’t always know where a classic yuppie stands. You assume Republican, but you never know. They could support gay marriage and water conservation. They could ultimately be politically non-binary—uber-liberal about one thing, and conservative about another, spinning you around and around, which may piss you off because you want answers. You want definition. Where do I place you? The classic yuppie isn’t going to chew your ear off about the horrors of the world, but they will bitch about local crime and vagrants.
I don’t care about having a lot of money, but as a classic yuppie I do care about living in a clean quiet neighborhood, which I do not. I live in a quiet condo community nestled in the hood about 1.5 miles from the beach. Great location, shitty neighborhood. It’s what I could afford. When I drive out of my tree-lined community, I’m hit with the reality of drug addicts coming up from the river bottom (they live there) to meander to what we call “Scary Vons” down the street, where they congregate and sell drugs while the police do nothing. It’s a vagrant’s mecca. It’s also my neighborhood grocery store.
We have gangs in the neighborhood as well. Shootings. Fireworks that sound like bombs and shake your house. Watching Knots Landing incessantly for the last year has really given me a clear view of where I am in my life—I’ve turned into Karen (no pun intended) Fairgate. Once Knots Landing hit the ‘90s, the subject of gangs became a prominent theme in the show, and Karen is having a hard time in this new crime-ridden decade—getting hit with a paintball gun while out shopping, she tailgates the teens who shot her with a major bout of road rage, ending in an accident and a possible manslaughter case. But I feel for Karen because I too am sick of this shit.
When I was a semi-hippie in my thirties, gentrification was considered a local horror that destroyed small beach towns. And it did. And I am still protective of my little beach town from big-box developers, but my dirty little secret is the thought: would a little gentrification be so bad in my sketchy-ass neighborhood? Maybe just a tad of gentrification. To reduce crime at least? Gentrification-lite. So I can take a walk at dusk without the fear of getting harassed by a meth head. I don’t think that’s asking much.
In the meantime, while dreaming of a gentrification-lite crime reduction that will probably never come, I stay tucked away in my 1982-built townhouse with high popcorn ceilings, nice natural lighting, and views of the mountains—where I can escape the grim landscape that is modern California. High costs and high crime. I can turn my focus to rather expensive sugar-free dark chocolate (literally my antidepressant), douse myself with Obsession for women, and cozy up in my contemporary-designed living room embraced by the mood lighting of battery-operated candles and sconces. I’ll browse vintage landline phones on eBay as a distraction. I’ll need one in case there is an emergency.
Music Rec
Your classic yuppie soundtrack starter pack:
Synth Noir Book 1
Shop special mass market size.