I used to think I knew a little bit about being cool. I wouldn’t admit to doing, owning, liking, eating, or wearing things I didn’t think fit that description. In hindsight, I’m not sure I knew the first thing about cool. Who does? Who decides?
Anyway, if I ever did know, I am now abandoning the pretext. I hereby confess to the following things.
- I don’t like balsamic dressing, tzatziki, hummus, or sushi.
Balsamic dressing burns my throat and makes me cough.
I confess I’ve never actually eaten tzatziki because it combines yoghurt, garlic, and cucumbers, a combo that puzzles me. And I think it is served with meat. Meat? Just not going there. You tzatziki lovers, have at it. I wish you well.
I do eat hummus when it is offered to me. If I can avoid it without being obvious, avoidance is the path I choose. It’s that pasty appearance and texture that disturbs me.
And raw fish, just no. No. No. No. I don’t care how prettily it is arranged. It is still raw fish.
- I don’t wear Spanx, high heels, skinny jeans, or uneven hemlines.
Once I spent several hours going from store to store trying on Spanx items. First, the panty thing. My rollovers threatened to roll down to my knees. So I tried the high-waisted model. Lord, kill me now. My breathing became labored. Deep breaths were impossible. I did actually buy a Spanx item: panty hose. But then panty hose are beyond uncool. People will actually refuse to be seen in your company if you wear pantyhose.
I think very high heels are divine. Gorgeous. Drool-making. On other people. ‘Nuf said.
Skinny jeans are so darn cute. I really love that look, but here’s the thing. I have never actually tried them on. I am afraid I would have to go two sizes beyond my regular size, and my self esteem would be shot. One day I may actually go into a changing booth and take the leap. I’m still thinking about it. By the time I find the courage, skinny jeans will probably be as passé as panty hose.
I like to sew, always have. In fact, I might have been a child prodigy seamstress. Any self respecting seamstress makes her hems straight. A crooked hem is a sure sign of an inferior sewing job. So when uneven skirts make their periodic presence on the fashion scene, I can’t conquer my old prejudice. Bad dressmaking!
- Running–I hate it.
I used to kind of like it. When everybody else was running, I ran. I’m not sure if I did it just to say I did it, or if I actually liked running. When repeated cases of plantar fasciitis, toe cramps, aching knees, and hurting legs became the norm, I gladly hung up my purple running shoes.
I joined the Y to use the treadmill and elliptical. The Y reeked of chlorine and the temperature was one degree above freezing. My Y membership was short lived.
Now I have a used treadmill that cost ten dollars to buy and a hundred dollars to deliver. Whether I can coax it into turning itself on is a little mystery every time. If I can get it up and running, its speed fluctuates wildly. I really don’t mind walking on this rickety rattling piece of outdated exercise equipment. I pump up the volume to sixties rock and I practically dance my way through a noisy workout.
What I dislike is all the clothes changing. Off with the regular clothes, on with the exercise duds. Those sports bras take an acrobat to get into. Then it all has to come off again, bath or shower, and then back into normal clothes with my hair gone haywire and my makeup worse for wear.
Yeah, I’d be happier to just don’t and say I did.
So that about covers it. Age has given me the freedom to drop the pretexts. Somewhere along the way I learned that people will love me just for being myself. If they don’t, then I don’t want them around, anyway.
Oh, and one last thing. Bruce Springsteen does nothing for me, and I really do like Barry Manilow. Now you know the very worst.