Oh, the times they are a-changin’. A certain ex-boyfriend who debuted the now rampant trend of the plaid shirt more than four years ago was previously accused of being a naïve, un-stylish lumberjack. Now, as androgynous world-class supermodel Agyness Deyn sports this patterned piece of fabric, it has become all the rage, rapidly evolving into an undeclared coat of arms for the so-called city hipster.

If anything, my relationship with New York City hardly qualifies as peaceful; home to more than eight million people, the existence of the urbanized hipster is as rampant as the rat or pigeon. Supposedly portraying “alternative indie” lifestyles, this collective of individuals feed the ironically corporate marketing of something that appears unique: plaid shirts, skinny ripped jeans, low slouchy boots and black-rimmed glasses. But just because it is the antithesis of all things clean and elegant, I am finding myself more and more perplexed as the Big Apple has become somewhat of a haven for these angst ridden individuals who sport asymmetrical haircuts and confusing attitudes to match.

But were the city to be a refuge of anything or anyone, it would be the sanctuary and fortress of protection for the hipster. Streets lined with Urban Outfitters and American Apparel stores that appear as often as Starbucks, and with plenty of alternative vegan / vegetarian restaurants selling mushroom dishes for more than $20, the environment practically breeds hipsters. Urbandictionary.com thoroughly defines these quintessential “individuals” as one who “Listens to bands that you have never heard of. Has hairstyle that can only be described as ‘complicated.’ (Most likely achieved by a minimum of one week not washing it.) Probably tattooed. Maybe gay. Definitely cooler than you. Reads Black Book, Nylon, and the Styles section of the New York Times. Drinks Pabst Blue Ribbon. Often. Complains. Always denies being a hipster. Hates the word. Probably living off parents money — and spends a great deal of it to look like they don't have any. Has friends and/or self cut hair. Dyes it frequently (black, white-blonde, etc. and until scalp bleeds). Has a closet full of clothing but usually wears same three things OVER AND OVER (most likely very tight black pants, scarf, and ironic tee-shirt). Chips off nail polish artfully after $50 manicure. Sleeps with everyone and talks about it at great volume in crowded coffee shops. Addicted to coffee, cigarettes (Parliaments, Kamel Reds, Lucky Strikes, etc.), and possibly cocaine. Claims to be in a band. Rehearsals consist of choosing outfits for next show and drinking PBR. Always on the list. Majors or majored in art, writing, or queer studies. Name-drops. May go by “Penny Lane,” “Eleanor Rigby,” etc. when drunk. On PBR.” And though I’m thankful to admit that they usually exist in concentrated, easy to avoid pockets at Cornell (pretty much stay away from Tjaden and Rand), they are a way of life here in New York City. One can only go half a block downtown without confronting the mass population of NYU students clad in v-neck tees, tight spandex and white high-tops. Perhaps because I live in the hot zones of this widespread epidemic, I am finding it increasingly harder to resist being slowly proselytized as a shameful, half-assed convert. But at least, the first steps to recovery are acknowledgment and acceptance.

It all began with an epiphany of sorts: I was sitting on the train silently detesting the hard-to-admit cute hipster couple next to me. He, being the awkwardly skinny guy with matchstick legs and oxfords that sprouted out of his all too tight jeans; she being the Zooey Deschanel carbon copy with prairie dress, mousy bangs and the right shade of red lipstick. Though I tried to cover my face with my day old edition of The Times, their seemingly effortless existence proved seductive. I suddenly wanted to go out and buy every vintage pair of boots and skinny jeans, and acquire the matching accessories of loud complaining and self-righteousness that nicely complemented them. And so, I stepped into the Urban Outfitters that is conveniently 100 feet from my apartment, looking to appease this urge to flirt with what I had grown to detest.

Walking into the store, I became overwhelmed — carbon copies of the cute couple in the subway were scattered throughout the premises, clasping hands and picking out more variations of skinny jeans and prairie dresses for each other. As I found my hands grabbing for patterned silk tops and jeans that were conducive to propagating acid reflux, I felt like a drug addict released into a new wilderness of possibilities. The world of the hipster was at my fingertips and all it took were a couple of key moves to achieve this newly desired ecstasy. My unbridled urges to suddenly try on every shade of loose, over-priced silk tops could not be contained. I even ventured into the dangerous prints and textures category by trying on fur vests that made me feel like I was butchered livestock and not a pretty hippie at Woodstock. The worst part was that as my efforts became more fervent, I also became more displaced.

With traces of my Italian leather flats and relatively contained hairstyle left on my body, I was an imposter and they knew it. All it took to snap out of it was to see a group of pre-pubescent girls try on the same shirts that I was clutching. As they giggled about their matching outfits, I understood that I was past that particular phase of uncertainty. The exhilaration of the store and its creatures turned on me as it quickly evolved into a dystopian world of a supposedly singular style. For me, it was not about plaid shirts (that should still belong solely to the lumberjack industry) and black-rimmed glasses, but about accepting what I never would become. And so with one swift drop of a trend, I left the all too simulated store in search of plainer colors and cleaner silhouettes. After all, the hipster manifesto does not define what is in and what is out, but rather, a different scene for a person who is not me.