Get It, Girl! Single Gal-ness in the City: Brunch and Bitches
When I moved to Chicago from Memphis six years ago, there were a lot of quirks to the city I had to get used to. Sure, the massive and noticeable racial segregation reminded me of home, but there were some things I found strange. Chicago, as a city, has certain obsessions: hot dogs, hockey, architecture, beer, its flag (it is EVERYWHERE. I don’t know if Memphis even has a flag. Is Chicago going to claim other cities in the name of Chicago?), and brunch.
Of course I’d had brunch before I moved here-Memphis is in the South but it’s not the fucking backwoods. Even people living in hollers know what Eggs Benedict is, but I had never encountered brunch as an end in itself. In Memphis, people would go to church on Sunday (not me, but people), and then they’d go out to something like breakfast or brunch afterwards as a family. This is called “Why Perkins Still Exists.”
In Chicago, they skip the church part because brunch is going to be your whole fucking day, deal with it. You will have an hour or more wait at the restaurant before you get a table, and many places offer a buffet or some sort of “bottomless” alcoholic beverage, so you’re going to stay there as long as possible once you sit down. And church brings people together, but brunch brings white people together in this city like no other unifying cause. Even more than hockey. I’m not saying non-caucasians don’t eat brunch-I’m sure they do, but the aforementioned segregation means it’s not something I have experience with to relate with any kind of authority. Also, without spending any time on research, I’m 99% sure that brunch is something white people came up with. And even more than white people in general, white women LOVE brunch. It combines so many of our favorite things: champagne, going to trendy restaurants, acting polite to servers while making their shift terrible (and could I get that on the side? And low fat ranch instead of regular? Thank youuuuuuuu), and eating food that allows us to say things like “OMG I’m going to be so fat after I eat this, but I don’t even care.” “Whatever, this side of bacon is going to turn me into an unfuckable porkpile, but Brad can just learn to suck his own dick, because I’m eating it.”
Recently on an outing with one of my girlfriends, I learned the true meaning of brunch. Before I thought it was just a celebration of indolence and an attempt to combat our collective hangovers. But no, for white women, brunch on Sunday is the best place to talk about sex. It goes along with the indulgent nature of the whole endeavor. We woke up late, went to a completely fictitious meal that is typically priced the same as breakfast and lunch combined, and started drinking before noon, so why not add sex to the mix?
I scheduled this brunch with my friend specifically to talk about men and sex because I had two dates with two different men that weekend. And yes, that was a slutty humblebrag. And no, I have no problem with using the word slutty or slut to apply to myself, because I think sluts are awesome, and it’s one of history’s greatest tragedies that anyone was made to believe otherwise. My previous dating history was as a serial monogamist, so this was more action than I’d ever gotten in my life. It’s like the difference in action between The Fast and The Furious and Furious 7. I’d been wanting my sex life to get to Furious 7 action levels-over the top, and there’s so much happening you don’t even notice when one of the people involved dies and is replaced with his brother.
The whole week I looked forward to this brunch as much, if not more, than the actual dates. Both of them were with guys I met online, and while I was not concerned that they would be scary, creep types, I was concerned about epic levels of awkwardness. Those fears did not come to pass, because I’m a really fun date and super adorable when I’m tipsy. So I ordered a Bloody Mary and pancakes (because I know how to fucking live) and began regaling her with my exploits. There’d been movies and singing and drinking and kissing and grown-up kissing, and it was so fun to relive all of it with her. It was just like Sex and The City except neither of us is a terrible rich person.
It made me wish that I could go to brunch every Sunday, but again, it’s too expensive. I can’t live in that world all the time anyway without turning into something I hate. I’m learning though, that occasionally pretending to be the type of person you hate, is really fun. And to anyone thinking, “You could just make brunch food at home,” you don’t get it at all. Brunch is not something you make; it’s something that’s served to you. It’s basically, White Privilege: The Meal.
