My First Fumbling Step Towards Hipsterdom

Well, all my hours of hard work appear to have paid off! Before I get to the crowning achievement of the last 48 hours (the details of which still bring a delighted smile to my face), some back story:

Obviously, in order to be a hipster, one must look the part. Upon awaking, I immediately began to head to the breeding ground of all things hipster, Williamsburg, to buy the requisite attire when a sudden thought knotted my stomach painfully and ground me to a halt: Did I really want to be introduced to the hipster society in my current attire? Looking down at my crisp white dress shirt, which I had tucked into my relaxed fit, boot-cut Levis, I knew the answer, and elected instead for the safer grounds of Manhattan.

I knew enough to frequent only thrift stores, but which ones? I decided to stop at every one I passed, and rely on the goodwill of the shopkeepers to help me in my quest--a decision that initially seemed ill-fated. My polite inquiries--"Have you clothing suitable for a hipster?" "Do hipsters frequent your establishment?"--were met with uniform derision, until I finally found my patron saint of clothing, Edward, at the Salvation Army near Union Square! He immediately took me under his wing, and within minutes, I was clothed in tight black jeans that clung to me from waist to ankle, a grey t-shirt which read "Die Hipster Scum" (my Edward assured me it was quite "ironic"), and a unique scarf known as a keffiyeh, which Edward informed me could be worn either over the head or around one's neck. With trembling anticipation, I tried on my new outfit and practically ran to the mirror to see the result (I say practically because the jeans somewhat impeded my normal range of motion).

I admit, at first I was a bit disheartened. To my untrained eye, both the jeans and shirt appeared too form-fitting (I am rather grand in scale, you see, and I feared such tight clothes might draw attention to my girth), and I started to strategically drape the keffiyeh about my person to mask some of the excess weight. No sooner had I started, though, then Edward set me straight! He took the keffiyeh, arranged it around my neck in a dashing manner, assured me that despite my size, I would fit in quite well (although he did recommend a diet of cigarettes and coffee, which, in addition to being authentic hipster, would slim me down "in no time"). As if this sage advice were not enough, he then revealed a pair of beaten up blue Converse from behind his back to complete my ensemble!

I do not go to far to call Edward a Godsend, I think, although such a word might be inappropriate for a hipster if they are all, as I suspect, either agnostic or atheist. But I digress! Edward allowed me to wear the clothing out of the store, and I emerged from my former corporate cocoon a frail hipster butterfly, ready to take my first trembling flight!

The results were dramatic. I invited no end of looks, undoubtedly due to the unhipness of Union Square; in Williamsburg, I have no doubt that I would scarcely have stood out at all! But this, dear reader, was not the moment which I foreshadowed at the start of this post; no, that moment came nearly a half hour later, as I walked down the subway platform. Walking proved a bit difficult, as the pants were, I imagine, designed more for leaning against dirty bars and reclining on second-hand couches than actually walking, and as a result, I was a bit unsteady on my feet, stumbling occasionally in the crowded station. The clothing, however, inspired newfound confidence in me, and instead of offering my usual unhip apologies for kicking a stroller or trodding on an octogenarian's foot, I instead sneered derisively. After one such encounter with a day laborer of some sort, I heard the following phrase: "Rude hipster fuck."

At first, I did not dare to believe this oath was directed at me, and I stopped in my tracks, looking about in vain for the real hipster to whom it simply must have been directed. Spying no such person, it dawned on my that I was the rude hipster fuck of whom he spoke! I could scarcely contain my joy at this moment, and I am sad to say that I did not react nearly as well as I ought to have. Instead of curling my lip and tossing a casual yet devastating insult, I turned around, a huge smile lighting my face, thanked him profusely, and attempted to shake his hand. It was not, I confess, my proudest moment, and his subsequent shove, which sent me crashing to the ground in a heap, did nothing to salvage it. Nonetheless, I could not keep that same smile from returning the instant I rose and brushed myself off: "rude Hipster fuck!"

I shall file that away in my memory as the first of many trophies celebrating my progress towards hipsterdom! All in all, a resoundingly successful day!

Unresolved questions:

1. Blogs.
2. God.
3. Star Wars.
4. Tight-fitting pants: is there a trick to walking in them?