The pursuit of yuppie-ness.

A block from my old house, on the Hill, there was a church billboard that read, "Seeking: Yuppies and Buppies."

It was a little weird.

When I read it the first time, I thought to myself, 'I'm no yuppie and I'm a little unsure of what a buppie is, so see ya.' But friends, yuppie-ness is upon me. This week, I've been both fighting it and giving in pretty equal measures, so I'll let you all decide where I stand.

I carpool to work. MB and I have a schedule, we meet outside at 8:05, we share a parking pass. We talk about how the 9-5 is tolling on our sleep habits, about how to take advantage of living the DC life, about how to maintain our bohemian souls while teetering around the cubicles in heels.

I shop (in my suit) for heels during lunch. There is no question. Only yuppies do this.

I pick up dinner from the salad bar at Whole Foods. Me and every other Clarendon twenty-something -- everyone stole my original idea! As I ordered my Cajun-spiced sweet potatoes, I did console myself that, unlike the shaved-head workout guy next to me, I didn't refer to the WF prepared foods server as 'my main man.'

I am in a book club, reading a Russian novel. Granted, I'm about 140 pages behind, and keep reading The Prisoner of Azkaban to distract myself. But I'm in a book club, with, ahem, colleagues. And we're reading the quintessential Brothers Karamazov.

I take yoga. Power yoga, that is. My friend and I didn't actually realize it was power yoga until we were doing what seemed like a million sets of down-dog/plank/up-dog.

I speak in Outlook lingo. It's pathetic.

I'm researching adult art classes. Digital photography at the Art League? Mosaic-making on Sundays? Typography?

One day, I'll live in that little hut I keep talking about -- the cinderblock one that I build myself, but for now, the question remains:

Am I in pursuit of yuppie-ness?
Or is yuppie-ness in pursuit of me?