I thank a Spring Street vintage shop
for providing the most perfect vintage lace dress ever.
Driving in at eight a.m., (NOTE: This is a hipsters' deepest REM sleep time) blasting Young Love or Owl City, wayfarers on my face, and my morning coffee in my right hand, soaking up my last moments of hipster freedom. Once I step into the black hole that I call my career, it's like putting on an alter ego for the next nine hours. Completely ignoring the dress code for my job, I can at least keep my hipster apparel in check at work. Overdyed Urban Outfitters canvas sneakers, black super low rise skinny jeans, and a black v-neck tee. It's the best I can do, really. I mean, I've gotta be able to hold onto something, right? Let me have a little freedom. I comfort myself by reminding myself that as soon as I get home, I can change into my ultra low rise, super skinny destroyed Levi's and my favorite American Apparel racer back tank, gaining my hipster identity back. It's bad enough they make me sit through their "typical" conversations at coffee break. Really, if it weren't for Tori, the girl I work with, I would have lost it a long time ago. She keeps me sane, and puts up with my dance parties in our shop, sometimes even joining in.
If you think that the disposition of a hipster is naturally distraught, seeing the agony on the face of a hipster whoring themselves out to corporate America, onlookers would surely assume they were on their way to a concentration camp, not their day job.
If it weren't for the desperation of needing health benefits, because I have the immune system of a poodle, I would undoubtedly be spending my days much differently. Hipsters characteristically abhor employment in the first place, and having self-generated income, preferring instead to spend their days complaining about their lack of adhesion to the larger outside world. Keeping my genuine hipster in tact, I should have embraced my inner insecurity and continued spending business hours searching craigslist job postings at the local internet cafe and taking walks down Bedford Avenue with pride, or at least with a, "I know I'm hot but if you look at me again I will f'ing kill you" ambiance.
As I continue working my tail off on my clothing company, I plan to quit this corporate stumbling block asap. I have made a vow to myself to never work anywhere where "corporate attire" is require (lucky for me, I'm able to dodge this one), or anywhere with the forbidden word "corporate" anywhere in the title. I'd much rather spend my days dragging my feet through art galleries, reading Hipster Runoff, or scavenging the new arrivals in my favorite vintage stores on Spring Street. My glory day is coming. And by glory day, I mean when the fourteenth day of my two weeks that I put in are finally up.
I can promise you this much, I am not looking forward to my Monday through Friday hipster walk of shame this week ...
