In which I shop at Urban Outfitters, drown in layers of irony, and hate myself.

What is it about shopping at Urban Outfitters that annoys me so much? I walk in, and am quickly drawn in by all the clothes and accessories that seem perfectly suited to my tastes. But then I look at other people around me to whom the clothing is also perfectly suited and I realize what a ridiculous hipster I am.
I have generally come to accept that I have morphed into a hipster since my move across the river. Somehow, despite my former disdain for leggings and the unflattering things they do for women with big butts, I now own 15 pairs of them. I go to Williamsburg to get my hair cut. When I go to said hipster salon, I show the stylist a picture of Zooey Deschanel. It's pretty much a done deal.

Yet when I enter an Urban Outfitters store, I see my sensibilities mirrored in ludicrous-looking people, and I am annoyed with myself. Why do I follow these ridiculous trends? Why am I seriously considering purchasing a straw top hat that in only a few months I will be filing under the "what was I thinking?" section of my wardrobe? Am I an individual who sets her own style, or just a poseur?

I take off the stupid straw hat and my eye is drawn to some beige canvas oxford-style shoes. A lanky young man in a purple cardigan is checking out the same shoes. I wonder if I am the bigger hipster for going for menswear-inspired shoes, despite the fact that he is the one contemplating ladies footwear.

Upstairs, I check out the assorted ironic knick-knacks. There is a miniature "deconstructed cuckoo clock" for sale, which is all white and has no cuckoo bird and does not in fact cuckoo.

My grandparents used to have a cuckoo clock in the upstairs hallway of their house. It was fun to play with but also right by a door that led to the attic, and I was terrified of what I imagined might be up there. So I associate cuckoo clocks with a creepy feeling. But now I feel that there is too much irony in a non-cuckoo cuckoo clock for my own good, so I move on.

Past the turntables, I catch a glimpse of a few boxes shoved into the sale section that promise to contain small black and white TVs. I honestly haven't seen one since my parents finally chucked theirs in 1992. The irony of selling one of these for $49.99 when eighteen years ago, you couldn't even give one away, is too much, even for me. I see why they are languishing in the sale section.

A vintage-looking bicycle catches my eye. It has a small basket attached to the front, and is painted green. It has a Parisian beauty to it, and I get closer to check it out, imagining my scarf blowing in the wind as I ride to the greenmarket. When I approach it, I see that a girl in a nautical striped dress and a blue straw boater hat is seriously pondering the bicycle, and I am instantly disgusted with myself for having fantasized about it. Girls who wear straw boaters pay $300 for a vintage-looking non-vintage bike. I am an artist, therefore I am above such impulses.

Except that I still think I would look really cool on that bike. Wearing that intensely stupid straw hat with a new pair of oxfords and a forties-inspired dress. I am attracted to clothing that will take me to other times and places, transforming me into something that I'm not, but at the same time I loathe my own predilection for weeds that will be languishing in Goodwill in a couple of years, until a few seasons later, when someone decides they are in style again. I wonder at my own unconscious willingness to conform. I have become what I am through osmosis. Am I really devoid of individuality?

As I stand at the cash register, I notice that they are selling Polaroid film, because of course it would be ironic to sell Polaroid cameras. The Polaroid film reassures me. It is something I would never buy, which I take as proof that at least I am not that much of a ridiculous hipster.