Remember how a few weeks ago, the husband and I went down to parents' weekend at the girl's school?
Yeah, that was the beginning of the end for my way cool image of myself.
I mean, yes, I have lived in the suburbs for about 15 years now, and I was born and raised in the suburbs for 18 years, but in the between time? I WAS AWESOME and lived in cool[ish] places and did cool things and was hip and rad and . . . [and now I'm embarrassing myself] . . . well, I wasn't LAME. I wore cool clothes and went to cool clubs and I managed an ART GALLERY, for fuck's sake. I was COOL.
Yeah, that ship has sailed.
During parents' weekend - in fact, when we dropped the girl off at school, outside the thriving metropolis - I started to get that feeling that despite my deep desire to go back and be my awesome self and live in a city, A REAL CITY, and be part of that vibrant energy, that maybe that was a dream I should let die.
Because it just made me tired. And feel like a complete rube. I am ashamed to say I felt most at home at our hotel next to the giant mall.
I am a suburban loser.
And then this past weekend? We skyped with the girl, who was telling us about the exciting weekend she spent getting her palm read and going to Urban Outfitters and hanging out in a very cool part of the city and having lunch at the hipster burger joint and I just sat there thinking:
1. I am insanely envious of how fucking cool my kid is;
2. I am goddamn old and tired;
3. I need to start doing stuff.
So while perhaps living the dream of being a city dweller isn't something that's going to happen to me, and I should let that go, I think at the very least I should be able to match a 14 year-old for having a cool weekend.
But maybe that will be next weekend. Because I'm kind of tired, and there's laundry to do, and I haven't even bought Halloween candy yet, much less put out any decorations, and I'm getting a flu shot on Friday, which is stressing me out and I might feel kind of low from that . . . so yeah, for sure, next weekend.
I'm back to awesome.