For a good portion of my adult life I’ve thought I was a hippie/hipster.
It was about the time when my high school sweetheart and I broke up and I realized I had no idea who Hannah was without him. I wanted to be different from the Abercrombie-clad girl that I was at that time, so naturally, I decided that I was a hippie. In reality I was simply a funny poser, since I had no idea what this entailed or what it meant, but in my mind I was a hippie. I began to smoke a tobacco pipe. I went 4 solid months without ever wearing shoes. (Um, not even in bars. I know.) I wore long skirts and knitted caps in the middle of summer that I called “floppy knittas” and drank only sophisticated drinks like boxed wine. I got big chunky glasses and began painting (horribly). I got my nose pierced and wore a giant hoop in it. I got a tattoo and looked into dreadlocks for my hair…because that’s what hippies do.
Some of you know this is true of me. Some of you think I’m joking.
feet. bare. tattoo. anklet. Soooooooo artsy. (Side note: those jeans are from Express…true poser)
long skirt, floppy knitta.
The nose ring. You guys, I KNOW.
Surprisingly, it took a good 4 years or so to realize that I am not, in fact, a hippie/hipster.
Last night I fully accepted this reality. I went to a bar to listen to a few bands at Pyramid Scheme in Grand Rapids. It’s grungy and eclectic and has numerous arcade games. It is a hipster bar, and if you are not of this mold, you stand out. I once had my friend meet me there and she showed up in a neon pink t-shirt which only enhanced her bright blonde hair. I was so embarrassed. And now, months after the incident and knowing full well the atmosphere of this venue, I decided to wear a black peplum top with skinny jeans and cute sandals and a chunky gold necklace. It wasn’t neon pink, but I did not fit in at the metal/rock/mosh-pit themed concert.
I did stand out, but that was okay with me. I sipped my gin and tonic and swayed with the beat (okay totally off beat because I’m that white) and sincerely enjoyed each of the bands. Side note: Mosh pits are a major white people thing. We had to have invented it because anyone who can actually dance would have to prefer that over shoving each other around in a manic state.
Anyway. Everyone was really into the first band, which happened to include one of Ryan’s friends as the drummer. The lead singer was addressing the audience and thanking them when he announced, “This will be our last song for you tonight.”
I was expecting an uproar of encouragement for them to keep going. Instead it was dead silent aside from me screaming at the top of my lungs, “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”
If I didn’t stand out before, I surely stood out then, as every eye turned to stare at the peplum-donning girl with fresh blonde highlights freaking out. (maybe not every eye, but Ryan says a good 70 people were laughing at me…I wouldn’t know because I was covering my eyes in embarrassment, though I heard the laughs.)
I’m okay with not being part of this crowd. They’re stylish and sexy and always know the name of bands no one else has heard of. They can pull off nose rings and tattoos and dread locks. They’re freaking cool, man.
But I’m okay with just being me. As I’ve transitioned out of my desire to be part of any particular societal brand, (whether that be hippie, professional, glamorous, etc.) I’ve also taken on a saying that one of my dear friends from Wyoming always said, “If people don’t like what they see, then they can look away.”
It’s true. We don’t need to dress or act or be a certain way. If you think I dress like a weirdo, guess what? I completely don’t care! And if you think I act like a weirdo? Well, you’d be totally right. I’m entirely out of my mind.
I hope you’re okay with not fitting any certain mold, because you’re totally perfect as you.
Here’s to you, but also to me (don’t want to be picking favorites!)