I think I should’ve called in sick today, but here I sit, with a sore tummy and a stuffy head. I’m still trying very hard to get some nutrition into my system (water, beans, nuts, soy, fiber, fruit) but I think my poor body is rebelling, because I feel worse this morning than I have all week.
I am definitely, definitely leaving early today and going home to take a long afternoon nap.
So, I was thinking about hipster chicks and how I can never be one.
Hipster chicks are really thin and have huge limpid Disney eyes and dark hair with retro bangs and pale skin. They have the cat’s eye glasses and the thrift store skirts and they can wear tee shirts from the little boys dept. at K-Mart because they have small breasts and narrow shoulders and thin arms and long, long fingers. They are artsy but not fartsy and they might have cats and they definitely have apartments because hipster chicks don’t live in houses. They definitely don’t play sports. They never admit to watching bad TV or big-studio films and they never admit that they secretly sing along when Justin Timberlake is on the radio, because they don’t listen to the radio, because radio is evil. They only listen to indie music, and the minute their favorite indie band makes it big, they’re on to the next new thing. They live on cigarettes and coffee and jellybeans and carrot juice and other random things that make no sense. I don’t know how they get to be so cool when they eschew every facet of modern pop culture, but apparently they retrieve these trends via osmosis from some hipster-chick database housed on a small island in the South Pacific. They like to talk about books that we all thought were boring as fuck and movies we’ve never heard of. But when they walk into a room, I always look, because they’ve somehow managed to achieve this look of aloof grace, this insufferable coolness, this quality that I will never have. And for this I secretly envy them, sometimes.
Because I will never be that way. I’ll never be graceful, because I’ll always have feet that are too big and legs that are too short. I’ll still trip in the doorway to Frank’s library every time I visit him.
I’ll never be cool, because I’ll always look a little bit stupid in most thrift-store skirts, and I’ll never know quite how to accessorize. I’ll still indulge in some bad TV, and I’ll always love some truly shitty films, and I’ll sing my ass off when Justin Timberlake is on the radio.
I’ll never be aloof, because I’ll always eat and drink and fuck and sing and dance and play and love and kiss like I mean it. Because I do mean it. I don’t know how to be any other way.
So I do envy the hipster chicks, in a way. But I’m mostly okay with the knowledge that I’ll never be one.