Not Cool

All you need to remind you that you’re not cool anymore is a teenager. Doesn’t even have to be yours. In one quick eye roll, you’re put in your place. I won’t be one of those whiny “when-did-this-happen-to-mes.” I just need to accept it.  I am not cool.  The not cool “anymore” is my insinuation that at one point I was. That may not be true.  Usually cool people have no idea that they are.

It’s a slow awakening, this path to oblivion. First you find yourself angry about loud music – that coming from cars, inside stores, even bars.  I can’t go into an Abercrombie and Fitch, because I literally can’t think.  Music that loud makes my brain shut down. I self-soothe by telling myself I don’t like Michael Buble, so that must count for something. Not much, I fear. I remember when my elders liked the music of Jim Nabors or Tom Jones. Ridiculously uncool.  Is John Mayer the new Tom Jones? See, I don’t know, and there’s the rub.  The other day I asked my son if it was a new song he was listening to. He told me no, it was old–from back in my prime. Back in my prime….when was that, I wondered? The 80s? The 70s?? Sometimes kids can knife you in the back and not even realize it.  The boy often goes on about how someone is REALLY old and when I finally see them they’re in their 40s or 50s.  Ouch.

The old and uncool also become seriously judgmental about skanky looking clothes. I find myself saying, “She’s too old to be wearing that,” a lot more now. I also constantly wonder if what I’m wearing is too young for me.  No sooner have I thought I would NEVER wear that, than I think, COULD I wear that? Fortysomethings get a lot of mixed messages from the media in this department. My car choices certainly aren’t cool, as I’m oft reminded.  Sorry, but a tiny sports car isn’t going to haul around mom’s things–like my parents, for example.

I can hypothesize that cool is not defined by clothes or cars or music choices. After all, lots of cool people are marching to their own beats and that makes them cool. But it’s not just the superficial cool things.  I sense that I’m losing the attitude one would need to be cool, too. The more that kid looks at me after I speak with a perplexed look, the more I know I’m jettisoning toward another planet. On my new planet, Volvos are cool.  Gardening is cool.  Going to bed before 11 is awesome.  And people who watch Dancing with the Stars are the people to respect. We’re the Fonzies.  My kid would have no idea what that means. Bring on the slushie facial.