What is a “Williamsburg Hipster”, you might ask.
Homey, what up?
Don’t be so uncool.
Silly Rabbit.
A “Williamsburg Hipster”, is a person who is hip and lives in the area of Brooklyn known as Williamsburg.
I have coveted their inventive and artsy style and their cool “digs” in the many slide shows and various videos in the ” Style” section of the Times and other publications over the past spring.
Recently, I was about to discard a forty-year-old dead cactus when I said to myself, “What would a Williamsburg hipster do with this plant?”
So I spray painted it, and now it looks like a sculpture straight out of Santa Fe.
The hipsters are into mobiles so I mobiled myself up a little happening trapezey thing a la Alex Calder.
I was so thrilled with myself.
And then I decided to do what all good hipsters do, I took the laces out of my faux “Converses” and stumbled around my apartment for about an hour tripping and making a fool out of myself.
So I started messaging some friends to ask them how you walk around in shoes without laces.
This remains one of the greatest mysteries in my life.
I think you cannot create them yourself, they must be purchased in a true hipster store.
While I was so busy wanting to be a hipster, I hardly noticed that one of my young friends has been getting busy trying to be me.
She wants to be older while I want to grow younger.
Yes, I am flattered.However, it is making me feel my age.
She is making me miss my youth and how I once looked in those clothes.
She is stunning when she wears her motorcycle jacket and her long black velvet dress and gladiator sandals.
And some days, I just feel and look like an old broad wearing black velvet and black leather trying to relive my misspent youth.
We were shopping and walking down a major street last week when a gentleman stopped us and told her how beautiful she looked, and she did not know what to say or do and she got so totally flustered.
It was truly adorable.
I loudly replied, “Yes she is beautiful, isn’t she”, to him like a proud mother.
“Tengera”, I said, “One day you will walk down this street and men will not comment on your beauty. So enjoy it.”
I made my way home and looked at myself in the mirror.
How do we lose things in our lives?
And where do they go?
And why does it matter to me?
I have no answers to any of those questions.
But last Sunday night as I was leaving an outside patio after a date, I was going on and on and on talking about George Packer’s new book when the man I was with stole a kiss.
He just planted one on me.
It was the most romantic kiss.
EVER
And it shut me up.
Yes, I am certain it was his modus operandi to shut me up.
And it did.
And it did something else.
For one tiny, brief, small moment, I felt young again. s
I swear my complexion even cleared up.
And it did something else, I thought it was ok to age, considering the alternative.
And ok to want to be young again.
So here’s to stolen kisses.
And the men who steal them.
Amen.
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