What The Hell Is My "Aesthetic"?

"How would your friends describe you to others? Three words or less, please."

Do you ever wonder what your sitcom archetype would be? I do. I love sitcoms to a tragic degree, having seen basically every single one in existence. I do not think I’m quirky enough to be a Phoebe Buffay or a Jessica Day, and I’m (hopefully) too self-assured to be a Phil Dunphy or a Joey Tribbiani. Now more than ever it seems like you are supposed to find a sitcom archetype to apply to your life, too: your “aesthetic”.

This Buzzfeed quiz—did you know they still made these?—has informed me that my aesthetic is “bubblegum core, also previously known as softcore”, so I guess I can wrap up this entry. (I cannot express how funny it is to me that the aesthetic got renamed.) It sort of plagues me sometimes: who the hell am I in three words or less? As per most things, this fear is compounded with access to the Internet. TikTok is full of aesthetics you can easily slot yourself into: cottagecore, clean girl, mob wife (?), Y2K, baddie, old money. When I was moving, I typed prospective neighborhoods into my handy TikTok search bar, just to hear Benton McClintock or some anonymous blonde woman’s opinion on the bars in the area and the dateability of the men. Was I the type of person who made sense in that area? Did my three-word description match the vibe of the community? And what of it? Did I follow those voices, or did I follow the blind stroke of luck of finding a rent stabilized apartment? It was a good reminder that the archetype of who lives where really doesn’t matter, one of life’s many “touch grass” moments.

The proof is in the pudding, guys.

In the somewhat pretentious transplant community of New York City, I feel like there is almost a rejection of aesthetics. You can have a particular aesthetic, sure, but you should be the most exaggerated version of it, or the most accomplished, or the most subversive, ad infinitum. The 20-something transplants of this city move here with the idea that this place will make you more interesting, will force you to grow in a way that Suburb, State cannot. Sometimes, this is the case—I’ve met some of the most interesting people I’ve ever met here who are uniquely NYC, working dope jobs in puppetry or writing for late night television or conducting data analysis (kidding). Most times, though, it seems we are all just young people trying to figure it the hell out, just like any other group of young people in any other place. The desire to be someone new and different is itself an archetype: the rejecter, the cool city girl. Push yourself to be the kind of person who dazzles at some crappy East Village club. Someone who is more artistic, someone who is more high powered business suit, someone who is so hot your face melts. If you’re not those things, why did you move to the city at all? You’re wasting your NYC potential! It is this tightrope dance that has become so overwhelming to me: that in a vacuum I’m potentially interesting, but in NYC, I am low on the list of intrigue.

This is, of course, ridiculous, and a champagne problem even at best. At the end of the day, everyone here is just someone working to pay rent and living to have fun, whether that is stuffed into a warehouse in Bushwick or sipping espresso martinis in the West Village. Most people aren’t shaking your hand and introducing themself as “Jen Glass, cottagecore” like it’s their company name. The aesthetic stuff is in our heads, a remnant of high school where your place in the cafeteria determined exactly who you were.

Still, though, the relentless quest to succinctly brand yourself seems to touch every limb of this life now. Make your Instagram account a business account so you can track who opened the links to your stories! Monetize your cooking hobby by making What I Eat In a Days! Curate the perfect dating profile to attract the perfect person—hurry, he’s slipping through your fingers, this stranger you have not met yet! This idea is actually what inspired this entry. I wrote a poem a while ago based on emotions I feel trying to break out of the space that Hinge (boo! hiss!) gives you to say who you are. It is loosely inspired by Maggie Smith’s Poem Beginning With a Retweet, an excellent poem worth reading. I used actual Hinge prompts for this one:

I have tried and tried and tried to make myself branded, to make myself some sort of aesthetic that would be palatable to potential dates or potential friends or potential strangers. In the end, though, I have found that most people don’t care. They just want to love the people they love. Life hands you strangers and requests you see them as family. I don’t often find myself putting my loved ones into baskets with qualities explaining why we connect. We just do, and the gorgeous thing is that I have been blessed with friendships and family beyond all comprehension, the types of people who wipe your tears and read your Substack entries. Isn’t that a calming thought?

Today, I walked across the grass towards the East River. I have always loved walking alone, and so I walked towards the very edge of Queens, where the water meets the setting sun meets the bridge. There were no eyes on me besides strangers, but all of their heads were tilted toward the sunshine. I sat on a long, curved bench next to other silent people, one young girl and one older man; he was reading, and she was listening to music. We existed together. All was quiet.