Heave your fiercest sigh

I've accepted the fact that I'm not skinny and thus, certain professions and or hobbies are out of the question.  I've made peace with the fact I can't be a supermodel, I'm okay that I'm not going to be a ballerina.  But my most recent realization of yet another occupation I will never fulfill has truly got me down.

I will never be a hipster.

(We all know that my main draw for being a hipster is to attract the hipster boys, so they see how sad and waif-like I look in my tight cords and come over and buy me a free-trade coffee or a PBR so we can bond over the newest awesome Joy Division inspired band that no one else has heard of.  But that is for another entry entirely, and I digress.)

Think about it.  When have you seen a fat, female hipster?  Like, a legit, dress wearing, wrapped in scarves hipster with the huge glasses and artsy, unsymmetrical hair?  NEVER.  Somewhere in page one of the Hipster Handbook it states that to be a true hipster, you need to look emaciated, like all your suffering and sorrow has manifested itself in your disdain for food.  (I, however, am a sincere fan of food, as well as beer, which we all know puts on the pounds.)

You would think that my being Asian would aide me in the quest to be a hipster (since we all know the Orient is popular in those underground, hip circles), but no.  My Asian genes have let me down because I, unlike the other 99% of the Asian population of the world, have totally uncharacteristic boobs and though I am short, which is a plus for the hipster game, I am compacted into five feet of the Asian Rice Belly.  Curse you, genes, for dashing all my dreams of hipster glory by giving me curves.

I can attempt the layering and striped shirts paired with leggings and berets, but the closest I can come to looking hipster falls somewhere closer to indie.  My penchant for food and generally "well-fed" look leaves me pining after swallow tattoos on my collarbone and the society that scoffs at Starbucks and gnaws on green beans.  But I like my collarbone the way it is, plus, I really dig gingerbread lattes.  

So I am left to try as hard as I can to fit in with the cardigan wearing mold... but I sincerely doubt I can pour this ass into a pair of skinny jeans and look even remotely tragic.