As I get older I have come to accept certain facts about myself and my life.
I will always panic at the thought of parallel parking, I will always just barely pooch out an A cup, and I will always laugh my ass off at .gifs of people walking into things.
There is one thing I’m having a really tough time with though, and that is the increasingly crystal clear realization that I may not be cool anymore.
Now, many would argue that I was never cool. To them I count out with incredulous fingers the following three facts:
- I once worked at a record store
- I learned how to drive a car (with a stick no less) at age 11
- I have masturbated at more than one workplace
Cool, right? So cool.
And I care so very much about cool. You can stripe my hair with grey and dent my face with meandering wrinkles, but please, sweet universe, don’t take away my cool.
But I fear it is too late. I think that if a war broke out and I was enlisted to fight I would be just another face in the MomCorp division.
Let’s look at the evidence:
I let the car warm up before I drive. This is after I’ve mapped out where I’m going on two separate websites and before I will assuredly arrive 15 minutes early. (I will then sit in the car and wait, playing a game on my phone created for toddlers with pleasing popping noises and zero strategy required.)
I enjoy yogurt.
I call out line budgers. Okay, more like a very defined and pointed glare.
When the WalMart cashier points out that I left a cucumber in the cart, I say shit like, “Oh HELLO Mr. Cucumber, what are you up to?”
When watching football and one of my fantasy players is heading towards the end zone I stand up and yell shit like “YEP YEP YEP!”
I request mint be smashed in any drink.
I don’t eat a lot of carbs and I talk about not eating a lot of carbs.
I can only master an entry-level ponytail vs. those magnificent high and proud artisanal buns you see on Pinterest.
In the summer I play music that I loved in high school very loud with my windows rolled down. I sing along. My car is a 2000 Honda Civic that hasn’t been cleaned since 2001. That’s an uncool mega trifecta.
After a butt injury, I can’t run anymore, so I power walk (commence uncontrollable uncool weeping).
Yeah. So, that’s pretty much devastating proof that I’m about as cool as a Grandma’s summertime vagina in deep Texas.
I’m only 37 but it’s clear to me that on a scale of cool, I’m Vanilla Ice.
And that’s the cold hard truth.