Portrait of an Aging Hipster - Day One
A Portrait of an Ageing Hipster - Forward
I have a deathly fear of being irrelevant. This is the crux of where I am in my life. I fear irrelevancy to the point where I’m afraid of accomplishing any of my goals. I have no doubt that I can achieve them; they are, as far as dreams go, modest to say the least. But I fear that I will achieve them not with the roaring success that I dream of, but with the overwhelming mediocrity that haunts my worst nightmares. This is my plight. The plight of an unpublished comic artist and an aging hipster. So I decided to do what any self-depreciating, yet unfoundedly narcissistic 20-something would do; I decided to document it. Every day another picture of a man/boy struggling with his own self worth, and trying desperately to turn his life into something meaningful before he dies. This is a portrait of a man afraid of life, but more afraid of dying without having lived it. This is A Portrait of an Aging Hipster.
A Portrait of an Ageing Hipster - Day One: Wednesday, September 26, 2007
I have body issues. Now I know everyone does to some degree, so mine are as far from novel as they are uninteresting, but to someone as vain as myself they are life and death issues.
I found this T-Shirt while rummaging through the garage last night. I know that I shouldn’t expect my favorite shirt from 4th grade to fit me anymore, but since there was a time not too long ago that such a thing was commonplace, I do. And it does fit. It’s just snugger than I would like, and calls far too much attention to what appears to a rapidly-growing beer belly.
I’ve spent every year of my life since the 8th grade sitting at a skinny 115 lbs. That may strike some of you as malnourished, gaunt, and undesirable; but for me, I thought the look worked. After Victoria got pregnant last year, I started gaining weight, and after the pregnancy, I continued gaining weight. I’m now 145 lbs, and while that may not seem like a very big number, that is a gain of 30 lbs in a year, which is nothing to scoff at. In addition to the belly, I’ve accumulated what appears to be the beginnings of love handles, as well as a bit of cellulite on my sides. Factor this in with my rapidly receding hairline, and you have one sorry-looking kid.
I haven’t decided yet whether or not I should start dressing “my age”, nor have I realized what precisely that would look like. Khaki’s and a button-up with a tie? Perhaps one of those hideous stretch-fabric turtle necks you can only find at Mervyn’s or J.C. Penny’s? Or maybe this is the age that I should find those shirts with bad Far Side or Dilbert comics on them not only funny, but a valid part of one’s wardrobe.
I do not look forward to growing any older, but I am at quite an impasse as to what I should be doing at the age I’m at now.
I have a deathly fear of being irrelevant. This is the crux of where I am in my life. I fear irrelevancy to the point where I’m afraid of accomplishing any of my goals. I have no doubt that I can achieve them; they are, as far as dreams go, modest to say the least. But I fear that I will achieve them not with the roaring success that I dream of, but with the overwhelming mediocrity that haunts my worst nightmares. This is my plight. The plight of an unpublished comic artist and an aging hipster. So I decided to do what any self-depreciating, yet unfoundedly narcissistic 20-something would do; I decided to document it. Every day another picture of a man/boy struggling with his own self worth, and trying desperately to turn his life into something meaningful before he dies. This is a portrait of a man afraid of life, but more afraid of dying without having lived it. This is A Portrait of an Aging Hipster.
A Portrait of an Ageing Hipster - Day One: Wednesday, September 26, 2007
I have body issues. Now I know everyone does to some degree, so mine are as far from novel as they are uninteresting, but to someone as vain as myself they are life and death issues.
I found this T-Shirt while rummaging through the garage last night. I know that I shouldn’t expect my favorite shirt from 4th grade to fit me anymore, but since there was a time not too long ago that such a thing was commonplace, I do. And it does fit. It’s just snugger than I would like, and calls far too much attention to what appears to a rapidly-growing beer belly.
I’ve spent every year of my life since the 8th grade sitting at a skinny 115 lbs. That may strike some of you as malnourished, gaunt, and undesirable; but for me, I thought the look worked. After Victoria got pregnant last year, I started gaining weight, and after the pregnancy, I continued gaining weight. I’m now 145 lbs, and while that may not seem like a very big number, that is a gain of 30 lbs in a year, which is nothing to scoff at. In addition to the belly, I’ve accumulated what appears to be the beginnings of love handles, as well as a bit of cellulite on my sides. Factor this in with my rapidly receding hairline, and you have one sorry-looking kid.
I haven’t decided yet whether or not I should start dressing “my age”, nor have I realized what precisely that would look like. Khaki’s and a button-up with a tie? Perhaps one of those hideous stretch-fabric turtle necks you can only find at Mervyn’s or J.C. Penny’s? Or maybe this is the age that I should find those shirts with bad Far Side or Dilbert comics on them not only funny, but a valid part of one’s wardrobe.
I do not look forward to growing any older, but I am at quite an impasse as to what I should be doing at the age I’m at now.