It’s one thing for an ancient (that’s you, baby) to keep abreast (there’s an old word) of popular culture and stay aware of what the young and deck and hipsterish are doing just to torture you.
But it’s quite another to attempt to actually be a hipster. You may think you can deconstruct all the elements of hipsterhood — the yoo-hoo tee shirts and the Regina Spektor tapes (yeah, they’re back), the vegan diet and the loft in Williamsburg and the toddler named Leta — and then you will be a hipster. But you’re forgetting the most important thing it takes to be a hipster: You have to be young.
How young? If you have to ask: younger than you. So give it up, dollface. Put the aviator shades in the case, find a long sleeve shirt to cover up the crown o’ thorns inked on your bicep, stop calling everything fierce. Take this advice, from McSweeney’s no less, about growing old gracefully.
Now aren’t you winning as much admiration for all your acquired wisdom as you did for your mint green Vespa? As if.