My Identity

I was accused, this weekend, of being a yuppie.
Upon further thought, I think it might be true.
I took the following mental quiz:
Caucasian, check.
Silver Volkswagen, check.
Fine taste in shoes and purses, check, check.
Ipod and accessories, check.
Dog, half-check for lack of chocolate lab. (By my testing standards, miniature dogs rate higher on the "Hipster" testing scale than the "yuppie" scale. See: Britney Spears & Paris Hilton. Go figure--it's a fine line.)
Corporate cube job: cha-check.
House in the suburb of all suburbs: check.
Useless 4-year degree (i.e. Art.): check.

I was still hesitant to take on this new title until I read the following passage from a book I'm reading by my second-favorite author, Nick Hornby:
All those wooly hats, and mustaches [sic] with parts of them missing, all those new tattoos and plastic shoes...I mean, I'm a liberal guy, and I didn't want Bush to bomb Iraq, [...] but these people fill my heart with fear and loathing, mostly because I know they wouldn't have liked my band. [...] They don't like real music, these people. They don't like the Ramones or the Temptations or the 'Mats; they like DJ Bleepy and his [...] stupid bleeps. Or else they all pretend that they're [...] gangstas, and listen to hip-hop about hos and guns.
-A Long Way Down

Now, what got me in this passage isn't the part about the Ramones or the Temptations (who doesn't like either of those?), but the clincher is the part at the end about hip-hop.
I'm pretty sure that the fact that I ride around in the aforementioned silver VW listening to hip-hop and rap, turning it down, discreetly at intersections clinches my status as a yuppie. After all, I'm still just a white kid from Wisconsin. I won't ever be able to change that.
So, friends, go ahead and judge. I am all of these things--but at least I have finally found my identity. I now know myself.

Fa-shizzle, ma-nizzle.



I'm not afraid now.
I embrace my yuppie-hood.
I know who I am.