I belong on an old lady, a tribute to garish debutantes too far past their prime to be accused of any type of style. My flair is ‘beautiful over-compensation’ for the lady whose bits have long been dried up and unused. So color me surprised when this new hipster thing far outreached fad status, as girls strut high waisted nightmares and boys magically squeeze size thirteens through skinny jeans. In my day a man wouldn’t be seen dead wearing something as chic and overstated as I, but it seems I’ve been reborn. Raised from the ashes to adorn not the ladies of yesteryear, but the new, the now, the boys who are confident enough to straddle a tiny bicycle and slurp a big gulp while flashing his best blue steel as if to say, “I’m cool enough to wear this even though most people wouldn’t, which is what makes it awesome.” I’m not complaining. I’d much rather walk the red carpet at the Grammy’s and rub elbows with models during photo shoots than sit in a dank and dusty resale store sipping moth ball fumes. I just wish someone would tell this poor sap that the reason I was made for a woman is pretty obvious, or maybe, he just really likes wearing a giant kitty around his neck.