I'm Not Cool

On Saturday, I went out with about 8 other girls to a club in Hollywood. When I wasn't busy making disgusted faces at my friends in response to the unfortunately gelled hair stylings of guys passing our table, I was slumped in our booth, thinking of what angle I would take when blogging about the evening. I decided on, "No One I Know Is Cool." And at the time I was certain that "No One I Know Is Cool" was a clever title sure to precede a work of literary brilliance. But now, in the light of day and with the self-congratulatory drunken fogginess all cleared, I don't know exactly what I was talking about.

But maybe what I meant was, I'm Not Cool. Because I'm not.

Reason #1- That night, underneath my knee-high "suede" boots from Target, I was wearing 2 different socks. One was Halloween themed, and featured smiling bats and pumpkins over a yellow, orange and grey argyle pattern; the other was Christmas themed, with a smattering of tiny candy canes and holly clumps. And I can't even spin this to say that it's because I'm cool in the way that I just like to wear weird socks. No, I really just couldn't find any matching or non-holiday socks while I was getting dressed.

Reason #2- In front of the club were two lines. One, the long line for people who didn't have bottle service and who had to declare how many girls were in their party before being considered for admittance. The other line was short, and all you had to do was give your name and presto! you're in and the envy of your peers. I, by some odd turn of events, was actually in the short line. This makes me cool, right? Not so much. It started to rain, lightly, before we entered. While some of my friends moved under a nearby tent, I decided instead to block the rain by putting my hands over my head. And then when rain started getting through the spaces between my hands, I started waving them wildly around in the air, thinking that this would guarantee more overhead coverage. Cool.

Reason #3- At some point in my old age, I've become a bad dancer. I used to be good, really! Some (none) would even call me sexy! I blame this on my background in ironic dance moves. You know what I mean, when you make a funny face that says "I'm just kidding about what I'm doing right now" while you move your legs and arms in terribly off-beat and exaggerated ways. Or, and this is too uncool even for me, you do moves like Shopping For Groceries or Driving the Bus. It was something I discovered during middle school dances as a way to cope with how extremely uncomfortable I was. But now I don't even MEAN to dance ironically. It. Just. Happens. I try to move my hips and be very serious about it all, but it just ends up looking like I'm joking. Or, if I'm really really not paying attention to what I'm doing, I end up busting out with the Mom Dances. If you don't immediately know what I mean, perhaps you can recall going to some kind of outdoor festival with your parents as a kid. Like a jazz festival or state fair or community picnic. Something with live music, a band that plays Dire Straits covers, perhaps. And you'd look around at the crowd, all of the moms with a few draft beers in their system, just happy to get out of the house. Feeling young again. And then they do the Mom Dance. And it's all stepping from one foot to the next. And clapping. AND THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS NOW WHEN I DANCE.

Of course, I had fun anyway. But I have concluded that perhaps I am better suited for, and indeed prefer, what I call "sweat pants activities." These include: watching TV, eating while watching TV, drinking while watching TV, and playing Rock Band with the neighbors.