On Learning That I'm No Longer Cool

Let me address the elephant in the room. Was I ever cool? That’s not a position I’m exactly prepared to defend. What I can prove is that I was once young, and to be young is nearly synonymous with cool. Regardless, what I can unequivocally say is that I am not cool now.

When I was younger and I imagined being “older”, I didn’t really picture myself as cool. However, I did think that my not being cool would be a conscience decision, that maybe I had given up and accepted the limits of my age. What I didn’t realize was how quickly cool would move beyond my grasp. That one day, despite any effort on my part, being cool would no longer be a matter of choice. I couldn’t remain cool even if I tried.

What “cool” looked like in high school, in case you forgot

Some adults have convinced themselves they are immune to the inverse relationship between time and coolness. These people are wrong, and I implore them to spend a day with someone younger than 18 before truly deciding they are cool. What they’ll find is only the young are cool.

Furthermore, any attempt to cling to cool is uncool. No one is fooled. Wealth and celebrity can help delay the inevitable, but even the mighty will fall off their pedestal. In many ways, I’m grateful to have finally handed in my cards and left the table.

I’m fortunate (or unfortunate) enough to spend time with young people almost daily. Every morning, I teach a class to high school students from my church. This responsibility in and of itself is not very cool. At times, I’ve unsuccessfully tried to adopt the student’s slang only to be ridiculed in the process. On other occasions, I’ve used the slang of my own youth in an attempt to be “old school”, and while more natural on my tongue, the words are received with equal mockery.

Lately, the kids have taken to humiliating me over my choice of college major. I studied “Interdisciplinary Humanities” but told them I studied English (interdisciplinary has about six syllables too many for their comprehension. Boom roasted!) One student has now said on multiple occasions, “Let me see if I understand you straight—you paid money to study a language you already speak?” Other students have openly questioned how I make any sort of income with my collegiate understanding of English literature and refuse to believe any evidence that I actually have an apartment and am not living on the street.

At work, I’ve been managing a few recent graduates who are starting their careers in a rotation program through my company. Though we’re slightly closer in age, the gap between their coolness and my lack is growing increasingly apparent. One casually commented on the way my “grey hairs become visible in the sunlight.” These new grads can wear clothing I could never pull off—oversized blazers, platform shoes, loose jeans, overalls—clothing I thought had long been uncool that’s now returned to bewilder the out-of-touch like me.

What do I do? If I try to act cool, to get on their level, I’m a fraud. If I embrace my age and give up, I look even older than 28.

Please be kind, this is a very liminal time for me.

I wonder if my two-year-old will think I’m cool when he grows up. Right now he practically worships me, copying my actions, words, and facial expressions. What about in fourteen years? Has a teenage boy ever thought their father was cool?

My father is the greatest object of my admiration. Yet, is he cool? There’s no question that he too was once cool. He proved this one day at the local skatepark. I was about twelve years old and going through a BMX and skateboarding phase. I begged my dad to take me to the Orem, Utah skatepark. It no longer exists, but it used to sit right next to the freeway, and going northbound on I-15, you could see bikes flying gracefully out of the ramps as you drove by. I could picture myself gliding through the air, especially after watching the X-Games on TV.

My dad took me to the skatepark one Saturday morning in April. I brought my bike along and with boyish stupidity, bombed right down a quarter-pipe and up a spine before crashing down in a heap (not cool). A skateboarder helped me up, and while I tried to hide the fact that I was crying, massaging my throbbing tailbone, my dad chatted up the skateboarder and his friends with stories of his OG checkered Vans and cruiser-shaped board that he rode to deliver mail while being pulled by his dog. I remember thinking in that moment, “Hey, I’m supposed to be the cool one, not dad”, yet here he was surrounded by the older boys while I nursed my wounded ego on the side.

My dad in the 1970s, probably (Image by Vans)

As I’ve gotten older, my dad has only gotten cooler to me. This is not a good indicator of my own status. If ultra-light backpacking, leadership theories, and The Atlantic are becoming cool to me, I’m in trouble.

If there’s one silver lining to my rapidly declining coolness, it’s that there’s a certain freedom to be claimed on the other side of cool. It’s the freedom most dad’s attach themselves to which opens the door to corny jokes, strong opinions about power tools, and the kind of interests that require visits to stores with bad names like “Hobby Town” where you can rub shoulders with the other local dorks.

Hobby stores. Where cool goes to die.

I’m not yet at that point, though lately I’ve started running with a hip hydration belt and wearing tennis shoes with jeans. I just installed a mounted cell phone holder in my car and got really excited when we bought a steam-powered mop.

It’s ironic to me that the decline in my coolness has been in lock-step with my increased confidence in myself and my interests. I suppose that’s the true process of adulthood. Finally admitting to yourself that you’re a nerd. Giving yourself permission to get excited about totally lame stuff like nonstick pans, merino wool socks, and visiting US history sites on your vacations.

So go, embrace your trite passions, and join the uncool. This is your future whether you’re ready or not.