The King of Cool even looks cool threatening someone with a gun. Image from

I’m cool. Not cool to the touch, but cool in the intangible stylish, chic, sophisticated, funky, with it, hip, big, happening, groovy, phat, kicking, fly way that David Bowie or Steve McQueen are cool. Although, I’m not nearly as cool as they are, but who is?

The King of Cool even looks cool threatening someone with a gun. Image from
The King of Cool even looks cool threatening someone with a gun.
Image from

How do I know I’m cool? My friends are cool.

My friends are smart, funny, witty, talented, cheeky, stylish, creative, adorable and totally awesome. They are the kind of people who would dress up in matching hot pink, leopard print, cat footie pajamas, complete with tails and little sparkly claws on the toes, just for a laugh and then take pictures of the folly while making silly faces and playing accordion like they did last night.

They are out there. We are all outcasts in our own way. None of us were popular in high school. None of us played sports or were cheerleaders. All of our yearbook pictures show dorky pariahs. Somehow, we survived that and found each other.

We each bring something different to the table. My niche is understated, snarky humor. That’s my job. My best friend is the mother. She takes care of us. She feeds us, brings us together, comforts us when we are down and finds entertaining things for us to do. Y’s job is extremely naughty, irreverent humor–the kind of jokes that make you groan and feel guilty for laughing at them. B’s job is misanthropic, intelligent, highly quotable witticisms and idea man. D is the gracious, lovable butt of our jokes. G’s job is grumpy old man. They all bring something different to the table, and together, we are an unstoppable force of hilarity and creativity.

When I was a shy little girl with big bug glasses and awful hair, I would have creamed myself over who I am today. Back then, when my friends and I were all dorks and outcasts who didn’t know each other yet, when we were insulated in our own individual worlds of treachery and shame, I think we all aspired to becoming some semblance of who we are now, but never dared dream it was possible.

I never thought I would ever be this cool. I never thought I would have a core group of friends with many offshoots who are as amazing as we are. I would love to tell that shy little girl, frightened of her own shadow, that she will survive and thrive and become cool.

I would love to tell that little girl that, one day, she will live in Los Angeles, a place so foreign and far away that it might as well be Mars. I would tell her that she will wear a black leather jacket–three words that hold almost a sacred significance to her, symbolizing what she is not–with a sparkly red Christmas dress and totally carry it. Her hair is long. Her walk is confident. She is pretty. She is cool.

She wouldn’t believe me, but that’s okay. The seed of potential coolness far in the future has been planted. She has something to aspire to and she will get there. She will be herself.