Saturday, September 20, 2008
There is nothing more humiliating to a hipster than when her thrift-store bought maternity dress stops being ironic.
Tonight, a hipster will be impregnated. Maybe she’ll buckle to the baristo at the local coffee shop, seduced by his beard and self-aware Exxon-Mobil trucker hat. Perhaps it will be that V-necked charmer at the dive bar who claims to be Ariel Pink’s tour manager. Or maybe it will just be that guy whose filthy apartment she’s been sleeping at for the last month so she doesn’t have to pay rent.
Hipsters are very torn about pregnancy. On the one hand, they don’t have any problem with abortion seeing as they got their BA in post-structuralist conceptual astrology and have endured hundreds of hours of NPR, Ira Glass’ infanticidal socialist drone lingering in their subconscious. On the other hand, being pregnant is kind of cool. It gives them some sort of purpose in an otherwise directionless post-graduate existence. In fact, some hipster girls dream of having a traditional nuclear family. They fantasize about their husband handsomely dressed in wool flannel and Ray-Bans returning home from his long shift at the record store and coddling their infant son decked out in a vintage neon Morrissey romper.
That said, most of the time they just get an abortion.