Losing My Cool

I knew part of it left me as soon as I got that first minivan...when I traded my Jeep for the momobile. I knew it as soon as the cold keys fell into my hands. I felt it. Like the demon excised from that possessed little girl in The Exorcism. I knew that at least part of it was gone. But, lately, things have been happening that have made the realization that more abundant. Letting me know that almost all of it is gone. And, it's starting to hurt my feelings.

Like last week when I left the night class that I taught this summer at Midlands Tech, and I had to stop at the grocery store on the way home... that awful truth hit me again. Way back when, in my days of yore, going to the store at 10.30 in the evening would have been for one of two things: junk food and/or cheap beer. That night, though, was for neither. In my basket: Triaminic, organic milk, tissue paper, cheese, bread, breakfast bars, orange juice (not for screwdrivers), and bananas. It was a quick trip to pick up the essentials for which the kids would be asking in the morning. And, as I was checking out, I couldn't help but spy on the freshly plucked from high school/recent college students' cart behind me. What they had was reminiscent of the stores in my baby brother's cupboards: fruit roll-ups, Fritos and french onion dip, Pringles, Doritos, Little Debbie Swiss Rolls, sour cream and onion potato chips, a bag of Snickers, sour cream, nutty bars, and 2 cases of Natural Light. I sighed, looked back at my purchases, and entered my MVP number so I could get my discount, paid for my stuff, and, knowing they had no MVP card, I offered to let them use mine. And, just like kicking a dog when it's down, they said, "Thank you, ma'am."

Ummmmm. Excuse me!?!?!?!?! No one calls me ma'am. No one. 

But, whatever. I let it roll off. I'm not really ma'am material, I thought. I'm cooler than that. I listen to cool music. Right. Right? Right? Wrong. Maybe in my head Widespread Panic is still cool. Jurassic 5, Blind Melon, David Byrne, The Dead, The Cure, Edie Brickell, G. Love and the Special Sauce, Digable Planets. These are the mainstays in my iPod. I mean, I have a freaking iPod. Isn't that enough? Apparently not. Apparently... none of these young kids even know who Widespread Panic is, because my 21-year-old babysitter thought that it meant some kind of large-scale panic attack. The Grateful Dead who? Don't even try to ask them who Depeche Mode is. And, so, another realization: I'm out of the game with the music, too.

The final nail in the coffin of non-cool came a few days ago. Matt and I are in desperate need/want of a larger house. We've been looking and hoping and finding a few that suit our needs/wants. For poops and giggles (I can't even bring myself to say s*%ts and giggles...jeez), we took a little time out of our Sunday to drive around looking at a few places with the kids. When we pulled up to one we really liked, the kids were like, "This is awesome!" And, I said, "Yeah! It's a phat house!" Immediately, Ella asked, "What's fat about it? It doesn't look fat." I couldn't even bring myself to try to explain it. I could only hang my head in shame. I've lost the lingo, too.

So, here I am. I thought I was doing alright. But, I'm not. I'm losing it completely. Losing my cool. Thanks a lot, minivan.