Someone called me a hipster today and I couldn't figure out why I was so upset...so I wrote a manifesto.

I am not a hipster. I care too much to be nonchalant. I listen to pop music and never download music to my iTunes but when I do it’s because the song makes me happy and brings up a specific memory. Like singing and dancing with my youngest cousin to Taylor Swift’s “22” this summer. And then I still fret over the $1.29. I literally have Spice Girls from 1998 or whenever on my playlist. And I don’t go shopping, but when I do I go to Goodwill and thrift shops and buy things I think look pretty on me. Sometimes they are trendy and sometimes they are not, and I’m proud to say at the ripe old age of 28 that I really don’t give a shit if anybody likes it. And when I’ve been good I splurge and go to Old Navy, which is so mainstream you can’t even deal with it. I don’t wear aviators or eat all organic and I would never, ever wear a white-girl indian headdress because hello, that’s just wrong. I hate Priuses and can’t ride a bicycle, and I’m 100% ok with that. I wear Converse but I also have patent heels and flip flops, and 9 times out of 10 comfort dictates what I wear rather than style. I couldn’t care less about what’s hot or trendy or hipster, but I don’t judge you on what you wear or listen to or drive as long as you leave me the hell alone. And I think that’s exceptionally fair. I don’t go to Starbucks or music festivals, but if I did I’d have a really good time and observe my surroundings like the freaking Discovery channel and still be polite. I don’t have a Mac because I’m broke and I refuse to buy something on the principle that it’s just cool, what the hell? I drive the same car that I’ve had since college and take good care of my things because they need to last a long time. I also don’t like change. I think ironic moustaches are stupid and you look ridiculous wearing cutoff shorts and combat boots and a beanie in winter, but it’s your body and if you want to freeze your ass off, that’s fine with me. But for the record, yes, you look like a dumbass. I like puns and things that make me nostalgic and summer. I love my job and helping people and making them laugh unexpectedly. I want to be a better person and change the world. I don’t like bad attitudes, and can’t stand when people care more about what someone else thinks than their own opinion. I can’t stand when people parrot back other people’s political ideology without really saying anything. I hate when people make assumptions about things and people they don’t know the first thing about. I don’t know everything, so I don’t pretend to. I don’t have an opinion on everything like it’s a matter of life or death and don’t talk just to be heard. I don’t say all this just to be mean, and chances are no one will ever see it anyway, least of all the people it’s targeting, and I’m not even going to lose sleep over it. My happiness and self-worth don’t depend on being accepted by everyone, but I do want to be understood. The thought of being misunderstood or misquoted causes me actual distress, and there’s nothing I can do about it, is there. Life goes on. I like skinny jeans, but I also like my Victoria’s Secret Pink sweatpants. I eat at McDonald’s. I shop at Walmart, and I don’t feel the need to apologize. I care about the environment and animal rights and the lower class, and I donate to charity. But I don’t go around telling people how to live their lives. I don’t endorse boycotts because I have a brain of my own, thanks, and don’t care what everybody thinks. I like vintage tee shirts, and some of my most prized possessions are clothes that have been passed down to me or given as gifts. I love gifts. I still wear a sleep shirt that I got when I was 10 years old, and it’s soft and familiar and full of holes I couldn’t stand to patch--holes I’ve earned. But oh dear. I like boys with pretty hair in skinny jeans and edgy jewelry. I like boys in beanies who take pictures of inanimate objects and post them on Instagram. Boys who go to music festivals and write novels on their Macs and do other things I can’t afford but don’t necessarily hate. I’m a sucker for longish hair and pretty smiles and awkward limbs accentuated by skinny jeans and sweaters. God, we need more boys in sweaters. I am absolutely gone for boys that show their personalities through their clothes and tattoos and iPods and shoes. I like boys that don’t just say they support a cause, but go to rallies and lectures and act. I don’t care if they drive shit cars or have holes in their clothes or wear band tee shirts I’ve never heard of. If they are quirky and polite and grounded, I am willing to overlook this. And maybe it's silly to think about this, because honestly, who cares what we wear? How do you define yourself--by your clothes, your music, your friends, your hobbies? Who cares what's hip and what's mainstream? Because here's the thing: at the end of the day, you have to live with yourself. You have to be proud of yourself and what you've chosen. At that moment, no one else matters. It doesn't matter if you listened to the coolest, most indie bands; it doesn't matter how skinny your jeans were. You matter. And maybe we don't tell ourselves, and each other, this enough, but it's true: you matter. And when it comes right down to it, I don't care if it's a hipster or a jock or a prep telling me that I made a difference--just that I did, to someone. You may not see me at Starbucks or camping out at Leeds Festival, dancing with a flower crown in my hair, and I definitely don't ride an old-school Schwinn bicycle. I won't be the one with the coolest, most up-and-coming fashions or undiscovered artists on my iPod. And I'm not, and will probably never be, a vegan. I'm too short and too average looking to make a bold statement. But I'm here too, and I care about what's going on in the world around me. It's one of my biggest goals in life to treat others kindly and make them smile. So if you see me, give me a chance. Underneath my average, un-hip appearance, I'm just like you, only different. And I'll look past your faults if you look past mine. Please and thank you, hipsters. --Caitlin