I’m just not cool

That’s what it is. I figured it out. I’m just not that cool. I was riding the blue line this morning and was surrounded by teenagers and hipsters all headed to Lollapalooza downtown. I didn’t recognize these people. I’m pretty sure they were human but perhaps came from the far off planet called Hipsterion 8. They all looked so… full of themselves.

I didn’t remember feeling that way when I was 22. I wasn’t quite sure of anything then, other than my obvious immortality. But I think my cool then is not cool now and what is cool now is beyond my ability to understand. I’ve actually reached that point where I don’t know what cool is anymore and oddly, I’m okay with it.

So I’m wearing a green polo shirt and jeans today. I can’t always bust out the cool wardrobe of yesteryear to impress total strangers. Although I would like a new pair of Vans; those shoes were soooooo comfy. See I wouldn’t buy them for the way they looked but for their actual function, as appropriate comfortable footwear. Yeah, I’m not cool.  

I am okay with not being cool. The only people that I want to think that I’m cool are my bartenders, my eventual wife and my eventual children. And eventually my children will no longer think I’m cool and by then they will be right. Them and their hover boards and computer heads-up display 3D learning machines. Rotten future kids.

I’m not cool and frankly, neither are you. George Clooney is cool. Dean Martin was cool. Frank was cool. Some super tattooed recovering drug addict that played the drums in some metal/rap/techno group is not what I consider cool. He’s just lucky.

You know what else isn’t cool? Working on Friday. Man, that is so not cool. But I have to do it to stay the square I am. And I guess that’s okay. Us squares got to eat and buy booze and cigarettes too.