on coolness.

Some of the coolest people I’ve met are those who care the least about being cool. They just are who they are, without effort. I would like to think that I am among them, but sometimes I still want to be a part of the cool club.

Exhibit A: The vintage Fuji.

My hunt for a cheap road bike began as something legitimate. Not that it ended up illegitimate, but I will admit some superficiality did contribute to the final purchase, compromising my original intent. I wanted to do a sprint triathlon and my trail bike would have slowed me down. I mentioned this to my friend, 26, who brews kambucha, bought a share in a local community garden, and has his own collection of bikes - all of which are some pretty good qualifications for the cool club.

So, he started sending me Craigslist links.

I passed up a lot of them either because of price or height, including a really awesome, bright red “Lady-Ace” with white handlebars. There was no longer a triathlon in my immediate future, but it was clear having such a bike was among cool criteria.

“Did you check out the Fuji?” He asked, taking a sip of his fair trade,  shade-grown espresso.

I had. It was no Lady-Ace, but it was short enough and affordable.

Later that week, I paid a measly $65 and was on my way, feeling legit as I drove away with a vintage Fuji on the back of The Sat. I put my prescription-free glasses on for good measure.

The next day, I grabbed my helmet and went for a quick jaunt around the neighborhood. Resembling neither cyclist nor hipster, I felt illegitimate; a poser. I returned home and googled some stuff, mostly so I could name drop - not that I’m often in the presence of club members - but, if I needed to I could at least rattle off, “Yeah, it’s got some sweet components. Single-butted steel seat-tube.”

Other than that, it sat in my shed until I joined 26 on a ride.

I waited in my driveway, the Fuji displayed quite nicely. He arrived and looked it over, quickly saying, “You’re going to want to get rid of that kickstand ASAP. Not cool.” And then, “Looks like your seat-tube is single-butted. Nice.” I was pleased. “Yeah, pretty sweet, right?”

We were just about ready to take off when he noticed my tires were flat and the chain needed greasing. Note to self – if you can drop the term “single-butted seat-tube” you should really own chain lube and know when your tires are low on air.

26:  “Dude, you didn’t ride this, did you?”
36:  “Yeah, they’re not that bad, are they?”
26:  “Dude, you’ll bend your wheels! Where’s your tire pump?"

Having neither chain lube or tire pump, we rode over to campus, where they at least had the latter.

"What’s the PSI?" He asked.
"PSI?"
He closed his eyes, shaking his head as he filled the tires.

We left campus and were barely on our way before a gear shift was needed. Other than the fifth grade Ross my parents had purchased at a garage sale, the last time I had attempted a gear shift was a long time ago.

“Dude, you know to change gears on that thing, right?” he asked.
“Yeah…just haven’t yet.”

I peddled slower, hoping to create some distance so he couldn’t watch. I moved the left lever. The chain sounded loud and faulty as it struggled to settle into its new position.

He jerked his head, yelling behind him, “Dude, that sounds terrible. What are you doing?”

I suddenly felt very 36 and uncool. I tried hard not to laugh as I managed to find the correct gear and stop the awful sound. The rest of the ride was uneventful and enjoyable, other than a few gear shifts. 

I’ve come to the conclusion that despite my collection of skinny jeans and scarves, despite chunky glasses and thrifted furniture, despite the vintage Fuji and my love of PBR,

I am 36.
I am divorced.
I have a child, let alone children.

Any of which quickly disqualifies club initiation. In fact, I’m guessing my application was not even considered.

It seems as soon as we settle into one phase, life propels us to the next, often before we’re ready. Single…married…divorced…no kids…babies…school kids…teen-agers…empty nest…grandkids. But, I’m convinced that through each change, space is being created – space for new opportunities to see things that startle us, space to feel things we’ve never felt before, and space to meet people with different points of view.

But, I will still leave room for Converse All Stars.

For those interested in beefing up your application, this might help.

carter?

here it is. the hair. I tried to do my best posh face, but will leave it at this. mom hair no more.

starstruck

yes, that is Carter Oosterhouse from Trading Spaces.

and, yes, that is me standing next to him.

while at work today, I spotted him.

said he was in town for a wedding.

and no, he wouldn't mind having his picture taken with me.

I've since come to the realization that I have total mom hair.

the news reporter bob clearly has to go.

asap.

I'm just sorry I didn't realize it before my Carter sighting.

then he might have asked me to be on his show.

thank goodness, I wasn't wearing the coordinating mom shoes.

I often take out the trash in the mornings, which means I throw the garbage bag on my car, drive over to complex dumpster, throw it in, and then drop the girls off at school, in that order. This morning was not unlike any other...I grabbed the keys, necessary school paraphernalia, and of course, the trash. Well, just as I was preparing to enter the school drive (it's really quite the parade with all the school officials, parent volunteers, and safety patrols waving on each car to ensure quick and efficient drop off procedures), I peeked in my rear view mirror and lo and behold, the trash was still on my trunk. The girls immediately freaked out while I tried hard not to laugh...I began fielding comments like, "Mom, this is so horrible. Please don't drop us off like this. Why did you do this? Why are you laughing?" I quickly turned off my blinker (trying very hard to conceal my laughter), and slowly drove to a nearby driveway where I put the trash in the trunk, turned back around, and finally, dropped them off at school.

Sigh.

I went to my first spin class today.
At the MSU powerhouse gym.
Full of big, muscular guys.
And girls wearing shirts that read PHI KAPPA GORGEOUS (for real.)
I got going too fast.
My foot fell out of the strap, almost violently.
But I did not stop.

"Do one thing every day that scares you." Eleanor Roosevelt

image compliments of www.nymag.com

In response to OttavaBattuta's Lesson in Coolology...

... one must also never wear her husband's black nike socks to work, especially with mom shoes, when she's scheduled at the very cool, very high-end Nordstrom...if in the event she does, perhaps because all of her own socks are dirty, she might find herself desperately trying to hide the heels that extend way beyond her actual foot, whilst her coworkers are prancing about in their tall, very cool, pointed toe black boots...