Cool Kids (Of Which I Am Not)

I am, beyond the shadow of a doubt, supremely uncool. I carry with me the illusion of coolness on account of my occasionally well-placed clever comebacks, as well as the fact that I’m married to a “cool” person, and that I surround my self with “cool” people. But, be not mistaken, friends.  This does not make me cool. I do not fit in. I am socially awkward. I demonstrate strong socially reclusive tendencies that I believe are the result of some fairly well-developed social anxieties. And let’s not forget that my own biological system is completely thwarting any attempts at being able to develop,  and maintain, any kind of social coolness on account of most cool things do not align themselves with 4pm dinners and 8pm bedtimes. 

I have never been cool. Like, ever. For starters, I’ve always been a stickler for the rules. Cool kids are fine with bending the rules, or even breaking them. Me? Even as a small child, I was all about maintaining and enforcing them with unrelenting fidelity. And God speed if you broke one and I found out, because all consequences were swift, severe, and most certainly without mercy. I once wrote my mom a strongly worded letter at the tender age of 7 when my oldest brother, Justin, was supposed to be watching me and my other brother, Jeremy.  Justin was not only punishing us for infractions that had absolutely no merit, but he, himself, was in direct violation of pretty much every rule that was established in the household. I took it upon myself to alert my mother to his misconduct, along with recommendations regarding future caregivers and caregiver expectations (see below). My mom thought it was hilarious (Seriously, Mom?!) and, decades later, had it photocopied and laminated. Clearly, she failed to see the significance and urgency of my letter. Perhaps she's the one who deserves a strongly worded letter. Just saying'.

In case you're wondering, the letter goes like this (spelling and grammatical errors included for authenticity).....

Mom-

I am never haveing Justin babysit me agine. He is not nice to me. He dose not follow the rulls. If we brake a full he will get me in trouble. I hate him. I love you so very much and I will never stop loving you. I am not yelling at you, I just think we do not need a babysiter like Jusin. And please wake me up at 6. I love you so much.

                 Love, Jessica Pickens

                    I love love love love love love love love love you Mom.

Coolness isn’t just about how you act; it’s equally about how you look and carry yourself. I did not look cool. In first grade, my homemade haircut, that could only be described as "I tried", ensured that my gender remained ambiguous. But by fourth grade, I never wanted to be mistaken as “That nice boy, Jesse” again so I saved up all my money and took myself down to “Debbie’s Country Cut ‘N Curl” and got balls-to-the-walls pretty. Eighty-five dollars later, I was looking super foin (that’s “fine” with swagger…Wanna know something else? Cool kids don’t usually have to explain their attempts at cool vernacular. So far, this case is pretty much bulletproof). So, anyway, several hours later I emerged from the salon with my permed mullet. That’s right. I got a permed mullet. And unfortunately for me, fourth grade was also the year I spent the first half of the year refusing to take off my aqua blue ski parka, even when the temps rose tino the high 90’s...Because, you know, demonstrating your heat tolerance gives you wicked street cred…

Well, what about the second half of the school year, Jessica? Did you make a fashion revival? No, actually. I didn’t. The second half of the school year I wore the same outfit every day for about, oh, two months. It consisted of acid wash mom jeans that I paired with a teal shirt that outlined whale taxonomy. I’d wear it every single day and, as soon as I got home, I’d change into my most comfortable pair of stirrup pants and bedazzled shoes and put the school clothes in the wash for the next day. My reasoning was this, I could look amazing and educate others about classification of the world’s whale population. It never occurred to me that wearing the same damn clothes for two months straight might make the climb up the social ladder a bit more challenging. 

Moving into middle school, I got braces. And despite the orthodontist’s insistence that it only needed to be worn at night, I went ahead and wore that headgear to school. Everyday. For the entire spring. We’re going to leave it at that, so don't even try...vultures.

When I wasn’t completely invisible to the other cool kids at school, I was being made fun of by them. I got excellent grades and worked well above grade level in every subject. So, every Wednesday, my equally minded buddies and I got shipped off to a nearby school for special classes. I enjoyed school and often reminded the teacher about assignments. I drafted my own extra credit assignments, for which I would turn in, already corrected, and with 100% accuracy, along with suggestions for how much that extra credit they might be worth. I often incorporated my allegiance to the rules in my writing so that the teacher knew she could count on me to uphold them. My favorite thing ever was having lunch with the teacher, and I once peed my pants in second grade. So yeah, I got made fun of. By middle school, the teasing was getting old and my previously shy and peaceful nature was beginning to wane. I had gone through school with the same group of kids my entire life, so I knew them well. More importantly, I knew their writing well. So, when I’d find letters stuffed in my locker with horrible words and cruel insults scrawled across the page in their finest crayon, I’d just go right ahead and correct their spelling and grammatical errors and deliver it right back to them. It made me feel better, but I can’t say it did much for my “cool” stock.

As an adult, I’m less obnoxious (I hope?) but still nowhere near cool. My friends are cool. My husband is cool. I am not cool. I’m the girl people have known for forever and still won’t be recognized at the store unless I’m with my family. This recently happened with my neighbors. My 5-year-old daughter, Lily, was recognized before I was. She’s had, like, two conversations with them her entire life.  Or how about this? I make my friend go with me to pick up my car from the mechanic (who is a family friend...that's an important detail to this point), because I don’t want it to be awkward when he doesn’t recognize me…again. No joke, people; I am completely forgettable. I’m also the girl who gets called “Jennifer” over and over again by people I’ve known for years. I mentioned this to my best friend and she just about died laughing because, “Oh my God! It’s so true!” She calls me Jennifer now. And to all of you who were just all, “Wait…that’s not your name?!” Let me say this: if you don’t know it by now, I’m totally not telling you (FYI-it’s Jessica). If I ever had to enter Witness Protection, I'd totally win on the whole blending-in-so-you-don't-get-killed thing, but the name part would end me. The US Marshals would be like, "Your new name is Jessica." And then it would be super awkward when I'd have to tell them my name actually is Jessica. Because then they'd be all, "No...your name is Jennifer. Your new name is Jessica." And then I'd be totally fucked. Or, because I've heard the Marshals can be kind of jerks, I might get a really cool name like "Polly", but instead of the traditional spelling of Polly, they'd probably make me spell it V-A-G-I-N-A. Jerks. So now I don't even have Witness Protection to hope for.

But anyway, I digress. Let's get back to the story. 

So, I still don’t even look cool. While I’ve more or less given up on whale taxonomy as a part of  fashion (Sorry, guys. I guess people don't like whales unless they are destroying some old guy's boat), I’ve now taken to wearing a regular rotation of t-shirts that include hilarious puns and clever plays on words. I’m most comfortable in a sensible cardigan, or perhaps a casual vest. I like a supportive bra, a high neckline, and a long hemline. My favorite lipstick color comes from Bonnie Bell’s winter collection of lip balms. I’m single handedly trying to bring back the poncho. And don't tempt me, because I will bring back the fanny pack. If for nothing else besides the name. Fanny pack. 

My husband, who works in the same school district as myself, is super cool. He’s everyone’s favorite teacher. He loves to perform and be the center of attention. He’s charming, and handsome, and clever. He’s cool.  And when other cool people meet him, immediately they want to meet me. And bless his heart for being excited to set up a play date for his socially delayed and attractively disabled wife, but the other cool kids, I think, assume that because he’s cool, I’m going to be his cool female counterpart. Well folks, that’s gonna be rough. ‘Cause this cat? Ain’t so cool. I work waaay too hard at being effortlessly cool, which is often realized when I get home to see my clothes drenched in sweat from being so anxious around other people. And also? If you have to work at something, it's not effortless and you also might not know what effortless means.

So, these evenings out, more than likely I spent most of the night nodding and smiling quietly in an attempt to make myself appear cool and breezy, when in actuality, I was just nervously trying to keep up with you all. But really, I spent the night asking myself, “Will I ever fit in?” And the answer is, probably not. I’m nerdy and awkward and horribly, horribly insecure. None of the people I hang out with even come close to that. They are, indisputably, effortlessly cool.  (And, for the record, also super kind. The new breed of Cool Kids doesn’t take pleasure in bringing others down. They are an inclusive group who would never in a million years subscribe to a philosophy of hate or cruelty. They really are cool...Damnit.) The worst part of all this mucky muck is that I so desperately want to be that super cool cat and supremely social butterfly. Or, maybe that’s not the worst part. Maybe the worst part is that I want to, but it’s just not me.

Now, I know you’re all wondering it, so I’m just going to come out and say it. You’re all wondering how a social misfit, such as myself, can score a hot dude like this fella:

Well, I don’t really know, actually. I’ve been likened to head lice, or hair pets if we're being PC, in that I’m relentless and hard to get rid of. So it’s entirely possible that he just gave up and succumbed to my demands for husbandry. It could also be my superior bosom of “Barley B’s” that left him powerless in their tractor beam of voluptuousness. Maybe it was the seductive way I always insist on changing my clothes alone, in the dark, in the bathroom, behind locked doors. Or, perhaps it was the Roofie...I guess we’ll never know.

So, where am I going with all of this? Well, a while ago, I was counseling a student at one of my schools and she made a comment about not feeling cool. She lamented about how alone she felt, how hard it was to feel like she didn’t belong anywhere.  Knowing all too well how this can feel, I sincerely empathized for her. It’s a lonely island when you feel totally misplaced. Her story has a happy ending, though. We worked on finding her coolness. We challenged the conventional standards of “cool” and found a place where she reigned supreme.  And wouldn’t you know? When she felt confident in her cool circles, she started exuding more confidence in other settings. And now? This girl? Freaking nails. She is untouchable. Kicking ass and taking names like you wouldn’t believe. She is no longer cool; she's ice.

Well, I want  to be ice, too. And, so, it got me thinking. Where do I feel cool? Where do I feel strong and confident? Where do the insecurities of my personality, my body, and my inability to navigate the social world melt away? Where do I feel like I have an edge? Where is the playing field leveled to a  standard where it’s less about how cool and effortless things are for you, and more about your pain threshold and your ability to go the distance?

Stop being coy; you all saw this one coming. The answer is simple: in my Brooks. Running. It all comes back to running. When I run, I run far. I’m not the fastest, far from it in fact, but I can go the distance, and I am getting faster. When I run, I’m so focused on my goal that I don’t have the time or the energy to worry about what other people think of me. I don’t need to know what’s clever or hilarious because there is no talking at a tempo pace. I don't have to worry about sweating through my clothes because sweat no longer means anxiety; sweat becomes power realized. I know what I want and I get it in my cross hairs. I shoot for the PR.

In my daily life, I’m incredibly insecure about how I look. I’m constantly comparing myself to others. How’s my hair? Are my clothes boring? Should I wear more makeup? Less makeup? Should I max out my credit cards to buy clothes that make me look cool but that I’m too embarrassed to wear because only cool people wear those clothes? Why is it the only time I feel thin enough is when I’m severely calorie depleted? What's wrong with me? I hate this body. I would just as soon destroy it than celebrate it.

Enter running.

When I run, it’s the only time I like and respect my body. It’s strong and my muscles are celebrated. My breathing works symbiotically with the natural cadence of my stride to move me as quickly and efficiently as possible. Food fuels the furnace to make the PR achievable, so I consume however much my body desires.  I wear clothes that I would never wear under any other circumstance. But these clothes, the runner's wardrobe, they make me run better, faster, stronger. And so, I wear them unapologetically. And finally, and perhaps for once, there is nothing wrong with my body.

And when it’s all said and done, and maybe you haven’t PR’d or even raced, but you just got out and ran, you’ll never find a more supportive and compassionate group of people. Runners applaud the fastest and slowest of a race because the last place person didn’t try any less than the first place person. And, by God, they were out there giving 100 percent longer than anyone else. So hells yeah the crowd should cheer! Even on just a regular, mundane training run you’ll become the recipient of  cheers and high-fives from strangers because you’re out there doing what many can’t, or won’t, do. Or, simply because they do it, too, and there’s a camaraderie in that. And joy. So, so much joy in running.

Running is so much of “what you see is what you get”. If you’re giving it your all, it’s not pretty for anyone. There’s slobber and snot and swearing involved. Like I said, it’s not pretty. Even though, it is in its own poetic, unconventional way. And running isn’t about who is the most suave, or who is the best looking. Sometimes weird girls named Jennifer do all right for themselves, and that feels pretty good, too. And the best part about running? For us mortals who aren’t aiming for the win, the only person we’re racing against is our self. There’s no need to best each other.  The happiest place on earth is the finish line of a race. There are so many hugs and smiles and high fives that it totally renews your faith in humanity. There is no hate, there is no judgment, and there is no exclusion. And, the real cherry? It’s effortless for me to exist among my people. I feel so totally at home. I’m not nervous or embarrassed or awkward. Even if everyone wasn't so super high on endorphins and a sense of accomplishment, we'd still all fit in. In the running community, we are all the cool kids and I have a place where I belong.