“Ok, hipster,” he said.
What the fuck? I was insulted. I didn’t drink craft beer or have this obsessive need to dress trendy. Lumberjack wannabes who don’t know how to swing an axe are just pansies and I need a manly man. The kind who doesn’t style their beards with wax.
Then I realized, there might be some truth to it. Very little truth.
This conversation happened several years ago. There was something I enjoyed before it became popular, and I bragged about knowing it long before. Must not have been that great because I have no idea what it was.
People ruin things. Overpriced avocados. An insane saturation of podcasts that either die or refuse to no matter how bad they suck. Blogs are no exception. And here I am, writing a blog like all the other bored stay-at-homes moms. But you won’t find any lists here. I don’t want to give you advice or pour my deepest secrets while staging a video of myself crying after a particularly rough day. I am a storyteller. This blog will evoke emotion that makes you think about life and all the parts that shape us. Or be a means to escape and read an entertaining short story.
Urban Dictionary defines hipsters as:
people that try to hard to be different by rejecting anything they deem to be too popular.
Am I a hipster? No. Do I try to use big words without knowing how to use it properly? Yes. But that’s a result of pregnancy brain. I am naturally different. My husband makes sure I know how different I am by teasing me. Different doesn’t mean cool.