I’ve never fancied myself a hipster. Never once have I made coffee by way of pour-over vs. my durable DeLonghi espresso machine. I don’t sip alkaline water from a bottle with an amethyst protruding from it’s base nor do I support white 90s Reebok sneakers worn with floral frocks.
By definition, I always felt that I rated rather low on the hipster spectrum quotient. Per urban dictionary, “hipsters are people who try too hard to be different by rejecting anything they deem to be too popular. Ironically, so many other people also try too hard to be different that they all wind up being the exact same, so hipsters aren’t actually different at all.”
I assure you, I’m the only woman in my neighborhood wearing zebra print H&M stretch pants, a worn-out rock shirt and Adidas slides while walking my dog each morning. Zebra print, not because animal prints were haute this year, but because I find them slimming. A rock shirt, not because it’s still trendy (mom word) but because I a) actually went to the show or b) worked in the music biz for a minute and got tons of free shit. Adidas slides, not because they were considered poolside chic a few years ago, but because I’ve wrecked my achilles tendon from walking around barefoot and need some sort of arch support.
Hold up. Is it happening? Am I blending into the very psychographic segment I’ve always lovingly poked fun at? The same people Portlandia brilliantly portrayed as moody millennials who essentially morph into the same, ethically sourced character? Am I actually okay with men wearing wingtips without socks?!
It dawned on me, while walking my dog in the aforementioned outfit this morning, that maybe I’ve bought into all this shit. Did I mention she’s a rescue*? From the same place Olivia Wilde and Jason Sudeikis adopted their dog? God help you should you enter an LA dog park with a pure bred, for you will be socially ostracized the same way one might if they were wearing a MAGA hat (in our neighborhood, anyway).
We live in Venice, which over the past 10 years has transformed from gangbanger territory to THEE place to be seen whilst nibbling on gluten-free avo toast. Our home is outfitted in macramé, mid-century furniture and what feels like a forest of potted cacti. We even took desert chic to the next level by purchasing a plot of land near Joshua Tree.
I’ve adopted rituals like charging my crystals in the sun, sleeping with rose quartz and placing citrine in my locally made hemp bralette before pitching development executives my scripts. I have a clairvoyant tarot reader instead of a therapist and I’ve traded americanos for cold brew and creamy nitro.
While I consider myself a lighter, subtler flavor of hipster compared to the dedicated devotees of Silverlake, DTLA and Atwater Village, my hipster tendencies do exist. I like being served my activated charcoal smoothie with a positive affirmation. I like listening to Mac DeMarco while journaling my feelings in a moleskin notebook. I like Instagramming #streetart and find it pleasing when my husband grows out his beard. And I guess that’s my healing buddha beads to bear.
*Adopt don’t shop, not because it’s trendy (mom word again) but because it’s the kind and ethical thing to do.
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