Here’s to you, hipsters. You frail, chain-smoking, PBR-sipping, flannel-wearing, inexplicably sexy beings. As a sorostitute, I don’t know why I like you–it sure feels wrong–but oh, it’s definitely right.
I’m so mystified by your ironic allure. How, pray tell, did you manage to put UGA on the map as one of the top hipster colleges in the nation when we’re simultaneously considered one of the preppiest? Athens is suddenly Bulldawg Nation and the Portland of the South. Hipsters, you’re taking back the town and caring so little about it! Watch out, though–that means hipster culture is en vogue!
But don’t worry, hipster boys. I’m ready to join you in taking Athens back off the map.
If that means having parties in duplexes and basements even further from downtown, scrapping PBR tallboys for some home-brewed beer with a secret recipe, and moving all my iPod’s music onto cassette tape, by God, sign me up! I might not ditch my Nike track shorts, but I promise not to wear them when we go thrifting.
Oh, yeah–I’ll always go thrifting with you. You can actually shop, and I’ll look for social costumes and fratty tees. We might end up wanting the same thing, but since we wear the same size, we could probably share.
And when we’re thrifting, hipster boys, know in your obscure little hearts that your style is unmatched. So maybe you dress like a manorexic grandpa–I can dig it! Keep rocking your Doctor Huxtable sweater and your corduroys from fourth grade. Never let contacts replace your horn-rimmed glasses. And dammit, let that rattail grow! In fact, the less aesthetically appealing, the more the attraction I feel.
Cross my heart, I promise that the tackiness you tactfully disguise as fashion sense will fit seamlessly into my social life. I’m sure it works because it’s not too far from those flatbill hats and t-shirts from the 1990s that frat stars wear!
Unlike frat stars, though, I could always count on you to execute the most creative themed outfit for date nights. I know I could tote you around my friends as the far-superior frat boy alternative, an intellectual with a flair for poetry and a Klimtian eye for art. I know, if I told my girlfriends you’re in a band, they’d immediately understand that it’s not one that plays Dave Matthews covers.
And lest you still doubt me, gentlemen, I’ll try my darndest to be an asset for you too. I’ll listen to your homemade synth-pop. I’ll cling to your side at the farmer’s market. I’ll venture into the art house theater with you for indie and foreign flicks. Believe it or not, I’ll even dress on occasion like I’m not trying to impress anyone. What’s more, I’ll enjoy every second.
When you tell your friends, “she’s in a sorority” and they scoff, remind them that there’s something beneath the surface. Tell them that I’m not a dumb blonde, but rather a–I daresay–feisty ginger; I enjoy good music; and that I’m not searching for an MRS degree. Assure them that, if they give me a chance, we’ll ultimately find quite a bit in common.
So here I am, hipsters. A Pitchfork-loyal film student who happens to carry a Greek affiliation and a Vineyard Vines bag along with my American Spirits. Eclectic? Ironic? Dare I say–stranger than you??
Stop fighting the norm you call counterculture and take me for what I am, boys. We might’ve been a match made in heaven all along.