Closet Cool

I am a closet cool person.

I used to be outwardly cool but now I secretly wear my cool on the inside like Clark Kent with his electric blue tights and cape.

In the height of my coolness, I was a quirky eccentric artist type who stepped into luck without realizing what was happening. By utter coincidence and perfect timing, I landed a job running an art gallery and got to hobnob with some fancy-pants people among a local arts community. I was fancy. I was interviewed by magazines and newspapers for my reviews of artists and galleries, sought after for my professional advice, and found that my name was a name that was often dropped when fancy people namedropped other fancy people. I was fancy. Fancy and cool.

Let it be known that all of this occurred in my very early twenties. I peaked at 22, more than a decade ago.

Where did it all go wrong? When did I lose my cool? How did I stop being fancy? I won’t blame it all on having kids, but a great deal of fault lies heavily upon them. I lost my fancy coolness as well as my waistline when I had my kids.

The truth is, being a fancy-pants artist gives the illusion of fancy-pants success, but I was flat busted broke and had bills to pay. So, I packed up, moved home, and traded my paint brushes for a job as a cubicle dweller in corporate America. Bo-ring.

However, without making this decision, I would never have met the love of my life who is also a closet cool. Together, we built a life in the suburbs and took civilian jobs to support our growing family. Now we spend our weekends remodeling bathrooms, driving to baseball games and piano lessons, fulfilling obligatory PTA duties and watching the Food Network. But we do it with secrets. I still wear black nail polish, he still wears Chuck Taylors and we both still hum lyrics to The Cure to ourselves.

We might lead boring lives, but we’re nurturing some cool kids along the way who will hopefully one day lead fancy-pants lives themselves. Our piano playing oldest has been begging for a baby grand piano so he can one day learn to bang his stool on the keys like Ben Folds. Our middle is an actual living, breathing, bona fide superhero. And the baby, well, he’s destined for great things of the Cirque du Soleil variety.

My days of living outwardly cool might be over, but I see great things in the futures of my children and believe the sacrifices have definitely been worth it.

I have cool kids.