Yesterday I found myself listening to Florence + the Machine and reading Chelsea Handler on my Kindle in a shabby chic coffee shop, with my MacBook open on the table in case a blog inspiration popped into my head and my sexy white iPhone 4 right next to it so I could refresh the Grindr app every time I digitally turned a Kindle page, in case a cute gay showed up. (My plan was to laugh really loudly at my book if there happened to be a cute gay within a 50 foot radius so perhaps he’d come up and ask me what was so damn funny. Then I’d share the joke, he’d laugh, and we’d live a long and happy life together.) My soy chai latte was making me warm, so I stood up to take my Urban Outfitters blazer off and accidentally caught a glimpse of my Toms, and that’s when it hit me.
- Since when did I become such a dirty freaking hipster?
I mean, for Christ’s sake, I was wearing a V-neck! How did this happen? When did it happen? Did my jeans shrink in the dryer to a size that might fit a large toddler, or did I purchase them like this because I was choosing aesthetically pleasing clothing over comfort and maneuverability? Some pairs I own are so tight that I have to peel them down my legs like a second skin when I take them off, much like the way the tin lid peels off a can of sardines. The only reason I haven’t ripped a pair yet is because I only buy quality brands like Levi’s and Diesel and oh-my-god-I’m-such-a-fucking-hipster.
I could feel the waves of nausea come over me. I instantly grabbed my phone and tweeted about my addiction to all things trending before recounting all my other hipster purchases/tendencies:
- I bought a Crate & Barrel couch. Off Craigslist.
- I make daily trips to Trader Joe’s rather than shopping in bulk like a normal overweight American.
- I own the Italian Language Rosetta Stone but I can’t speak Italian.
- I’m a vegetarian. Leaning towards Vegan.
- But I still enjoy leather.
All these hypocrisies were making me hyperventilate. I paused Florence + The Machine — by the way, her new album is just… so good. She was amazing live. I saw her at the Greek Amphitheater in Griffith Park, surrounded by a bunch of cute lesbian couples. We all sang along, but we wouldn’t dance because as fun as that would have been it wouldn’t have looked cool and OHMYGODHIPSTER!!!!!
I refreshed Grindr to see if there were any gays within my vicinity that I could confide in, but the only one nearby was the barista behind the counter, and ever since he played handsie with me when I passed him my credit card I had made a conscious effort not to look in his direction.
The Grindr app only made me feel worse. Was I even gay? Or did I just come out because it was the trendy thing to do?!
I sat back down, took off my fake glasses that are super cute but hurt my ears, took a few deep breaths, and calmed myself. After a nice warm gulp of my soy chai latte, which was now a perfect drinking temperature, a couple new thoughts helped me regain my composure:
- Calm down. Vaginas are scary. You really are gay.
- You weren’t drinking at the Florence concert because you went right after work and beer was too expensive at the venue. So of course you weren’t dancing. You would have humiliated yourself.
- Why doesn’t this coffee shop have coconut milk creamer? Soy is so been-there-done-that.
I chugged my coffee, packed up my electronics, and finished the vegan bran muffin that I was too embarrassed and self-conscious about to mention earlier in this post. Then I got in my new, earth-friendly and totally adorable Toyota Yaris that my parents are helping me pay for because I’m unemployed, and drove off, knowing that it’s okay to be a little hipster. As long as you’re not full blown hipster. Seriously, the day I start smoking American Spirits and drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon, please god, run me over several times with the sea-foam green Vespa that I’ll surely be driving.