Sunday, March 10, 2013

hipster brunch.



It was one of those mornings where you feel kind of emotional and teary-eyed because you drank too much the night before. I find that if you don't throw up, hangovers seep out of your body in different ways, like through untimely perspiration, slow motion thinking and watery eye corners. It honestly does not happen to me too much anymore, but this was my predicament last week on Sunday morning.

Some new friends invited us over for brunch, and we were late. At home, I was having trouble getting my eyeliner on. The day before I had undergone a dramatic change to my hair (from dirty blond to dark brownish-red, complete with dyed eyebrows). Looking in the mirror, I remarked to my boyfriend that I resembled a cartoon. I felt like a thirty-something version of Betty Boop.

When we pulled up to the house, my honest thought was, Damn, this is so cool with it's grey exterior and bright yellow door. And it's an actual house. Damn.

When you and your peers reach a certain age where the steady pace of life's treadmill no longer exists, when the equally spaced mileposts drop off and you find yourself off-roading, things get interesting. People my age play in a wide spectrum of lifestages. Some have children in grade school, others are (secretly) on match.com trying to settle on a final mate. People are finishing unfinished bachelor degrees while others are flexing newly acquired PhDs. People have three-bedroom, two-bathroom houses with management job titles and other people live at home with unemployment checks. It's an interesting time.

Amongst the circus variety of thirty-something lifestyles, there exists a state of being that can be shared by all, no matter the circumstance. The state of being is also shared amongst Gen X'ers, Millennials, and even some Boomers. We all live together in an invisible, discretely undisclosed and purposefully unnamed district that is called Hipsterville.

No one wants to be an actual "hipster." That's like wanting to be known for wearing too much perfume. But we all know the smell of hipster when we get a whiff of it.

It's kind of like smelling your own body odor when you realize you failed to apply deodorant. You acknowledge it, then try to ignore it for the rest of the day because it can be slightly embarrassing if others notice it too much. Keep your arms down and your conversations short.

There is an impressively long Urban Dictionary definition of hipster and I particularly enjoy this excerpt because it explains a good fourth of the population where I work:

Hipsters reject the culturally-ignorant attitudes of mainstream consumers, and are often seen wearing vintage and thrift store inspired fashions, tight-fitting jeans, old-school sneakers, and sometimes thick rimmed glasses.

You know who you are. You look slightly hot yet forgivingly goofy in your Warby Parker glasses. And yes, don't worry, you are totally lovable. This is not a diatribe against Hipsterville. On the contrary, it is a self-conscious celebration of it, complete with well-placed self-effacing humor and slightly uncomfortable candor.

Back to brunch.

As I stood in the effortlessly stylish-yet-shabby chic kitchen of the grey house with the yellow door, I licked salty sweat off my upper lip. I was sweating out the cocktails from our progressive condo party. (That's when you go from condo to condo, each has a different cocktail and appetizer - we had grapefruit/champagne/gin cocktails with Asian meatballs and deviled eggs - yes, I know, just oozing with hipster and hangover all at the same time.)


This was the moment when I witnessed something that made my head spin a little bit because I felt like we were living in one of my favorite scenes from Portlandia.

A small group of my new friends stood around the kitchen island looking down. There was a collection of about four or five French Presses sitting on the counter. They were deep in conversation.

"But how are we going to tell whose is whose?" 
"I think mine had a small nick in it." 
"OK...well. They are all the SAME SIZE."

At that moment I was like, holy fuck, is this a real conversation happening here? Because it is so artistically perfect, so comically life imitating art, that I am just going to HAVE TO write a blog called "hipster brunch" (with the mandatory lower case letters. which I hate.)

There are TONS of amazing blog posts, articles, poems, cartoons, and songs out there dedicated to the hipster's dilema. (Dilema = The Walker Art Center's Cat Video Festival occurs at the Minnesota State Fair Grandstand this year. Does that officially make it uncool and passé?) I found a really hilarious post on Verbal Vomit by Hannah Hillman, complete with multiple delightful sketches, like these:






I don't really have any enlightened conclusion to this post. One thing for sure is that I have kind of had it with the mustache. I saw a guy on TV yesterday talking about a ship that went down in the Civil War and his mustache really irritated me. It's like, Seriously. You can't make those pointy tips without people hating watching your mouth move. That's not nice, but that's how I felt.


1 comment:

  1. i just laughed my face out. thank you m'darlin.
    -larry

    ReplyDelete