When Moms Lose Their Cool

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:

1. I once worked at a record store
2. I learned how to drive a car (with a stick no less) at age 11
3. 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.