mastering the art of the uncool.

I am not a cool girl. In fact, I have owned four too many pairs of semitransparent wind pants to have ever boasted an air of coolness. Unsurprisingly, I have not always had this insight. And truthfully, I had given the idea of coolness minimal thought until a classmate of mine asked if I believed myself to be less cool since entering graduate school. Only in this rare moment of clarity did I encounter the absolute depths of my ineptitude for coolness.

There were minimal hints of my fated incapacity for coolness during my formative years. Rather, there were declarative and distinct signs of it. In elementary school, the beloved custodian, an institution in his own right, explained that the orange wind pants “don’t match my shirt again today.” My brazened spirit did not bend.

I have a scar on my left knee from a middle school dance. On the evening herein referred, my emboldened prepubescent self spryly launched her practiced limbs into the air, taking the form of my never-yet-revealed interpretation of the worm, only to face the concrete reality that comes with wearing tan wind pants embellished with metal zippers covering the bony prominences of a dreamer. A recent masterful and lauded execution of the robot suggests no lessons were learned that day.

With a continued blissful ignorance, my left feet and androgynously robed legs set me towards Hollywood’s Walk of Fame. I drew inspiration from Monty Python, balancing a fine wit with my crass and frank interpretation of Austin Powers in Goldmember. On the stage I crafted from a cardboard box, I took comedic risks that were captured on the last remaining blank VHS tape of a 1992 camcorder. As the lone household talent, I anticipated no competing interests for the coveted recording space. Fortunately, I would once again become the beneficiary of folly. Through a series of questionable events, my esteemed sister released my art unto the seventh grade students of Jonas Clarke Middle School, thus transforming the grey lifeless tile corridors into a Walk of Fame on which I reigned supreme, but none the wiser.

I am a fortunate girl. In fact, I have far more of these stories that I share with my dearest of fools that bravely join me on the pursuit of mastering the art of the uncool. These are our trials and tribulations.

ever truly and always uncooly,

j.

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Originally published at artoftheuncool.wordpress.com on January 26, 2016.