Confessions of An Aging Hipster


I’ve been holed up with the flu for the past four days. I’m happy to say things are looking up – as in I can finally hold my head up for longer than 9 seconds. All this lying around has got me contemplating my existence (and lack of patience) again. I’ve come up with a new ruse to talk about. Aging. As a hipster. Specifically a female one.

Not to say that 36 is old. By no means. I don’t feel 36 – unless I’ve got the flu which in that case I feel 106. But no matter. Age only smacks me in the face when I get cornered by a couple of 90’s babies who draw blank stares when I make references to “MacGyver” and “3-2-1 Contact” observe,

Catchy, non? The whole hipster identification-thing is so foreign to me. I never aimed to be anything other than “alternative” which is what us pee-paws used to be referred to back in the day. “Alternative” meant you wore combat boots and floral print dresses – the boots you found by calling every Army-Navy store listed in the phone book and the dress was from Salvation Army. 9 times out of 10 you made the alterations yourself. Hipster is an evolutionary term. It started as alternative and warped into mainstream, a title that Madison Avenue approves of. That’s why you see commercials of hipsters driving cars, buying laundry detergent and carrying babies in slings. We’re all aging now. The only difference is that if I want a floral print dress and combat boots in my size, I can just go online.

I find it enduring, these kids today. Wide-eyed and ready to be cool. They want coolness and fame above all else and are prepared to knife you in the back to get it. I suppose that’s more of a punk-rock inception – punk-rock-hardcore mates where a lot more handier with weapons than us alternative-hippie-hipster-types. Those punk-rockers are the ones running Madison Avenue and revealing in their capitalistic revenge. I mean what’s a better F-you than coaxing a cool kid to buy laundry detergent? Genius if you ask me.

Look I’m a woman over 30. Pretty soon anything I say won’t matter because my breasts won’t be high enough to catch enough attention towards my point of view. That’s okay. At least I’ll have my brain and the anonymity of this blog. I’ll also have a butter knife to throw at my own coolness. It’s funny. As you see the light of your youth fade away you become increasingly desperate to hold onto your own hipness (i.e. Demi Moore – as in pack in it, girl). Me, I’m going to die with my own dignity in tact. Like Audrey Hepburn. Ain’t that every girl’s dream?

Audrey Hepburn

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