This morning, as I pulled on my 1970s-gold cardigan over my discounted v-neck shirt, buckled my gladiator sandals, tied a ribbon around my head, and pushed on my horn-rimmed glasses, I made a horrible discovery: I have turned into a Hipster.
Someone please just punch me in the face.
I am not quite sure how I let this happen, mainly because I am a staunch Republican. Isn’t a big part of being a hipster being kinda socialist? Most of my hipster-esque tendencies do have quite good backstories that have nothing to do with carefully planning out a nonchalant appearance.
I LOVE mustaches. Especially the curly kind. Also, mutton chops. And well-kept beards. This is not because I think they’re ironic. My love for them is two pronged: The shorter prong is a basic love of all things Victorian. Especially their facial hair. It. Was. Epic. The second is a quirky obsession I’ve had with manliness since the Manly McManman skit. Epic facial hair is the ultimate expression of manliness. Do you know how much testosterone it takes to spring out of bed with a fully-formed handlebar mustache every morning? About as much as Keira Knightly has. (So an excess amount.)
I am also obsessed with plaid. It is the manliest color. (Pink and purple plaids are not real plaids.) Its manliness can be evidenced by the fact that it is sported by lumberjacks the Canada over. My love of plaid started, however, because of my grandpa. He is probably the coolest person ever to live, and he only wears plaid. I want to be him when I grow up.
Horn-rimmed glasses/Any vintage thick-rimmed glasses. How are you going to recall a time when it was acceptable to subjugate women without these bad boys on your face?
I have a fixed-gear bike. But it was all I could afford!! It was the cheapest one. And I got it at Target! That doesn’t count right? It’s a corporation? It negates any Hipsterness? (Oh man, you should see it. It’s all red and white and made to look like a vintage bike from the ’50s.) Crap.
I carry a messenger bag. But I always have, ever since the third grade. I am a very (very) petite person. By petite, I mean tiny. Like freakishly small. So backpacks always hung down to my knees. That made it ridiculously difficult to walk. So, I reverted to messenger bags and have never gone back. In my defense, the one I have now can go between being a messenger bag and a ludicrously over-sized shoulder bag. And I got it at Target. The only time when I didn’t have a messenger bag was in the seventh and eighth grades when I had a rolling backpack. That’s something I think hipsters should pick up. They’re so lame that they’re hilariously awesome.
I do have some, hopefully, redeeming qualities that will save me from sinking deeper into the hipster quagmire. I hate beer, so ever getting into Pabst Blue Ribbon is not an issue. (I can’t even imagine why anyone would want to drink that.) I have an awesome sports car. Ooh ooh, here’s one! I have a Hillary Clinton nut-cracker: she cracks them in between her legs!
Come to think of it, a hipster would probably have that too.
Gaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh.
But I’m a Republican!
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