Yo-chi, Ice Baths and Validation

The city that loves to hate and be hated

I love that I hate that I hate so many things.

Does that make sense?

It’s like being aware of my own cynicism gives me a free pass. My hyper-awareness of being the 20-something version of an old cranky Greek lady from Earlwood somehow validates all my feelings. I know I’m the hater here, so I feel like I have free reign to poke fun at all the very "Sydney" things that bother me (and us). It’s like I’ve warned everyone in advance that I’m the bad guy in this analysis.

It’s basically the complicated version of saying, “No offense,” before offending someone that’s sitting right in front of you..

I guess I love that I can admit that I hate hating so many things? (This sentence took me as long to write as it took you to read.)

But it’s true-admitting it somehow shields my opinions from the pushback I’d get from run club enthusiasts and people who happily stand in long lines for Yo-Chi frozen yogurt.

“We’re just trying to be healthy and meet like-minded people,” they’ll say.

“Yeah, I know, I’m being unfairly critical—shut up and let me hate you,” I’ll respond.

Or:

“I actually enjoy waiting in line for 45 minutes for expensive yogurt. It’s not hurting you, is it?”

“You’re right, but I love the validation I get from publicly mocking you for it.”

I love validation. Especially the easy kind.

Most of the city hates these things anyway, so I’m not being different. But somehow, this California-esque, beachy, narcissistic self-help culture has come to define so much of Sydney.

You know ice cream? That thing everyone loves? Well, we’ve got this thing that tastes objectively worse, you have to serve yourself, and the line is massive. Sydney LOVES that.

The ritual of going to an overhyped store, standing in line, talking about the line, getting some social media content, and feeling good because what you ate is vaguely healthy—this seems to drive some Sydney-siders into a frenzy. And it drives the rest of Sydney into a frenzy too, just for different reasons.

I don’t know when this shift happened, probably before my time. Maybe during the Olympics when our city became more “international”? Maybe because of social media? Either way, this aspirational, Californian, health-conscious, beauty-obsessed, hype-driven culture has become the subject of ridicule by our cooler, more subtle Melbourne cousins and our more laid-back, bogan friends in Brisbane.

The LA influencer culture has found a home in Sydney, to the delight of breakfast news shows with nothing to talk about—and niche meme pages with nothing to talk about either. For most of us, it’s the perfect “punching up” situation.

There’s something ridiculous about a small group of Sydney’s wealthy young people believing the LA lifestyle they see online translates the same way to this English speaking outpost on the ass end of Asia that no one outside of Australia thinks about - as opposed to the international capital of entertainment and tech in California.

Ice bath meetups, Yo-Chi vlogs, run club dating videos, early morning beach plunges, $50 brunches, Birkenstocks, Muay Thai getaways in Thailand—it’s all become a spectacle for the rest of us to mock, while also secretly being a bit curious. Who are these people? How are they not self-aware? Maybe they are? Do they think they’re better than us? Where do they even get the money? What would it be like to be trapped in a Bondi Icebergs sauna at 11 am on a Tuesday with 10 of them?

The Eastern Suburbs seem to have evaded Australia’s favorite unifying force: tall poppy syndrome.

They’re free from the strange shame all Australians feel when they publicly try to improve their lives. Instead of feeling validated by mocking others like the rest of us do, they get validation from publicizing their healthy habits, which baits us into hating them for our own validation. Then, they get reminded they’re the persecuted minority for just trying to improve their lives—which, in turn, validates them.

It’s a perfect ecosystem that could be narrated by David Attenborough himself. The same way bees move from flower to flower, helping them pollinate, we move from mocking one Eastern Suburbs health fad to the next, keeping the young, rich, and fit Eastern Suburbs crowd validated.

I’m convinced they love the hate, and the hate validates them. And I hate that so much.

They must know how they come across.

But they also aspire to the coastal-American way of life—the hyper-individualistic “you’re doing something wrong if you don’t have haters” mentality.

I remember last summer, or maybe the one before (my summers blur together), when I met up with one of my few Eastern Suburbs friends—a very valuable friend to have in summer. They texted me to come to the pub with their friends in Paddington.

“Should I do it?” I thought to myself.

I knew if they weren’t already on some illicit substances by the time I got there, I’d have to brace myself for a very monotone, very uptight, very unrelatable conversation.

“Fuck it,” I thought.

I got there and was greeted with a hug from my friend, which was contrasted by ice-cold stares from three elvish-looking Eastern Suburb friends who probably filmed a "Get Ready With Me" vlog that morning.

The usual exchanges happened with my friend. The other three silently stared at their phones.

“So, where are you from, man?” one of the guys finally asked.

“Yes! They talk,” I thought.

“I’m from Petersham originally,” I said.

“Western Sydney boy!” he said with a smile.

I laughed, finally relieved someone made a joke.

His face didn’t move.

Wait, does he actually think Petersham is in Western Sydney?

He does. What? How do I respond to this?

I quickly decided to push back—I had to know if he was joking.

“Petersham? It’s like right behind Newtown,” I explained.

“Yeah, I know it. Right next to Marrickville, right? That’s Western Sydney, man,” he said, as his perfectly manicured yet still messy mustache lifted with a smirk.

I was so deep in the Eastern suburbs bubble that the laws of geography had miraculously shifted - anything west of Darlinghurst was just the barren impoverished wasteland of Western Sydney.

I resigned myself to just observing for the rest of the afternoon, absorbing this social excursion to the East.

I listened to conversations about their friends, people with names like Elizabeth, and their dilemma of whether to spend the next few months on a beach in Byron or at a fitness retreat in rural Thailand.

As the afternoon went on, I felt more and more lost, hearing about unknown DJs and even more obscure venues being talked about like they were Sydney institutions.

When they started talking about ice baths and how much they improved their lives, I felt like I had broken the fourth wall. I was inside the subject of many of my jokes.

“Jesus Christ, maybe I am a Westie,” I thought as I decided to leave.

I was reminded then just how thick some of the bubbles in this city are.

If you put someone from Bankstown into this Bondi bubble, you’d swear they were from completely different countries. The accent, their aspirations, fears, opinions, and even what makes them feel validated in life—it’s all so different.

As social media continues to grow and echo chambers deepen, I think these small differences in Sydney will only get bigger. While one person in Bondi’s entire media diet resembles someone living in LA, a person from Bankstown’s might look more like someone from Dubai, and an Inner Westie’s like someone from London or Berlin. I think we’re going to see more and more social media spectacles like ice bath meetups pop ups as we drift further and further into this dystopian nightmare..

Which I’m keen for.

Because I love hating things.