Not a Gossip Girl

Never in my life have I strategically placed a beanie on my head, grabbed my new vintage yellow Urban Outfitters polaroid camera, stopped by Starbucks to get a venti caramel macchiato with extra foam, extra hot, and an extra shot of espresso, and roamed Golden Gate Park taking photos of everything that I see at various angles.  Which makes it all the more pitiful I happen to hate coffee and beanies and the only polaroid camera I own belonged to my grandpa.

I can’t even tell you the amount of super­cool, grunge kids that I see patrolling Union Square on the weekends and the number of angsty college students who smoke their “all natural” cigarettes outside their apartments at three in the morning–but I am not one of those kids.

On occasion I do get dressed up to go downtown, it’s fun to do.  But to be honest, it takes a lot of effort and a pair uncomfortable boots to obtain the quintessential city hipster look.

And really, although this may come as a shock to kids who rarely venture outside of Walnut Creek, people who live in the suburbs wear the same things that people in San Francisco wear. We also do the same things, the only difference is proximity to things. But let’s be real, I can’t count on two hands the number of times I’ve gone out partying with friends (and that is because that number is zero).

Continuing to ruin every suburban kids image of city life, I have to let you know that it is extremely hard to feel put together, cool, and confident as you’re walking down a street with nothing but the stench of urine attacking your nose. I give props to the kids who take the risk of projectile vomiting in order to get that super artsy picture of themselves with some graffiti, because that smell takes a full day to leave your nose. Also, there is basically no chance that you will become good friends with a homeless person and that they’ll walk you home or bring you your keys when you lose them (unlike nearly every movie that takes place in a major city).

Honestly I love to take the CalTrain to Ocean Beach and thrift shop on Haight Street; but after a solid year of trying to hold down my skirt while simultaneously attempting to pull strands of hair out of my mouth when walking through the San Francisco wind, I have converted to wearing a comfortable pair of sweats with my hair in a bun.

So maybe I do consider myself an “anti-­hipster” of sorts because I’m not the stereotypical version.  But maybe the real hipsters are the kids that (gently) shove through throngs of worried tourists to go to their favorite boutique in the same way I fight my through the halls of Northgate.