Ladies and gentlemen, I am basic.

Please hold your gasps and hear me out – it’s true. I shop at the mall by choice. I look forward to pumpkin spice lattes. I un-ironically listen to any and all music. On Saturday, I bought four CDs. Two were Taylor Swift.

I’ve never been happier.

I’d say I haven’t always been this way, but that’s a lie. Even when I dressed differently and pretended to care about DJ nights, I was a basic person inside. My friends knew this, my family too – but I was in denial, believing that the clothes and the music and the movies made the (wo)man, and that if I embraced the things I actually liked, I’d be disbarred from a community I wasn’t even in. I don’t actually even know what community that is now (the cool people…?), but I know that trying not to be basic is even more embarrassing than being basic, full stop.

For a solid two years I tried harder than anyone to be very, very hip. I dyed my hair black (a horrible decision – I truly apologize to anyone who knew me then for witnessing what I put you through), I chose clothes based solely on what I’d seen people cooler than me sporting, and I shamed anyone who didn’t know what that week’s Very Important Band was. I was cool (DO YOU GUYS GET THAT). I was angsty. I was the girl wearing army pants and flip-flops because Regina George wore army pants and flip-flops, but in my case it was novelty sweaters because I saw them on Lookbook.nu.

And even then, I was basic. I was basic because I was born that way. I owned a scrapbook of Spice Girls paraphernalia, I bought several Leonardo DiCaprio fan books, and I played Barbies until I was 12. (And they didn’t even have sex: “Brad” took care of the kids and “Samantha” went to work. Then they’d kiss and go to sleep.) Basic is the only life I’ve known. Even now, I’m too enthusiastic about my hometown, I’d genuinely eat at Jack Astor’s with relish, and I think Taylor Swift’s “All Too Well” is one of the best songs ever written. (Because it IS. But that’s an essay for another day.)

But there’s a stigma attached to basic-ness, despite counter-culture only working if you believe in the stuff you’re rebelling against. Circa 2009-2010, I had no idea why I was doing anything – I just wanted to fit in. So not only was I an obvious basic whose every word gave her away, I was a basic who didn’t even feel comfortable in the clothes she was wearing. “I used to work at American Eagle!” I’d scoff. “Can you believe it?” I’d jeer, trying to hide the American Eagle label on the jeans I was still wearing. “Anyways, look at my hair!”

Now, don’t get me wrong, I still want you to look at my hair, and I also can’t believe how long I worked at American Eagle. (Four years, you guys – that’s a looooong time in retail years.) But that didn’t make me mad. I wasn’t as embarrassed as I was letting on (and I’m not embarrassed at all now – I still shop there), and nobody made me feel like I should be. I was projecting some serious insecurity onto people who didn’t and don’t give a fuck where I shop or what music I like, and more importantly, who accept me for the basic I am.

Which is great, because I’m way happier getting my basic on. I pre-order things like the Veronica Mars movie so I can score the free mug that goes with it. I go to baseball games early to secure a MLB bobblehead. I bought a hat with the name of my hometown on it because I’m not-so-slowly evolving into my father. I don’t go to parties I don’t want to be at, and I Instagram the shit out of my cat. I will take as many selfies as I want, and I will maybe dye my hair again, but certainly not black because those photos have been deleted for a reason. Ultimately, my basic-ness rose triumphantly and unavoidably to the surface and I didn’t have the energy to stop it.

Because essentially, that’s what it came down to: at this age (28) and at this stage (the present moment), I am too tired to deny my basic rights. I have work to do, and pals to see, and family to stick by – I can’t worry about trying to fit into an idea or a community or anywhere that isn’t me. That doesn’t make those communities bad, but I just want to eat wings and work hard. I want to drink chocolate chip cookie hot chocolate from my Mad Men cup, and go to Target for a Los Polos Hermanos shirt, and then see X Men in 3D by myself. I want to be basic. I’m happy being basic. My hair looks better basic, and yes, these are American Eagle jeans.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to the mall – I want that t-shirt with a cat on it that says “Wrecking Paws.” This, my friends, is who I am.