be cool or die trying

small problems, huge ego

It’s September, which, by nature and design, is supposed to embody the beginning of something new. Not me though, I’m feeling rusty and exhausted, and also criminally uncool these days. I wish this feeling were a badge or a boutonnière I could put on and take off as I please, but it’s more of a red wine stain on all my dresses.

Act I. I’m going to war with a publication I love because they haven’t paid me for an article I wrote for them ages ago. Confronted by sudden righteousness, a quality I never knew I had in me as a conflict-avoidant bystander, yet unable to shake it off, I’m trying to self-pacify by assuring I’m doing something good for humanity — or maybe just for other writers who, like me, never feel recognized or respected enough. Some things are at stake: the people I admire happen to be friends with the people who run it, and this can very well backfire in my face. Sure, I may think I deserve credit and respect, but I can’t guarantee anyone else will care to agree with me. Oh, to cut the ropes that might’ve potentially led me to some great opportunities, to pour gasoline on the road I still have to walk, what a thrill for a girl like me. Now that that’s been set in motion, taking my words back would be a waste of benign and desperate nature. I’m thinking, what could’ve protected me from this happening? A recognizable enough name. A good network. More cultural capital. A cocoon of coolness, if you will — bathing in my glory. If I was a Dimes Square socialite with a trust fund and a few B-list friends that could get me into any space I were or weren’t welcome in, cosplaying as a barely-getting-by freelancer or owning my privilege for a change, I would never end up in this situation. Instead, I’m a Slavic immigrant with an office job, glimmering in my mediocrity and abundant in self-sabotage, about to go full Azealia Banks mode on social media, and keeping my composure has never done me any favors. We don’t have a choice but to own what we are, do we?

Act II. Same day, a little later. Out with friends at a bar. Live music playing. I’m not feeling any of it — the band, boring and soulless, playing songs I can’t even pretend I want to sing along to, something that sounds as if Brat was an off-pitch Springsteen album, and not in a good way. The bass player looks freshly divorced, with not a hint of joie de vivre in his eyes. Some people joined us at the table and they’re the friendly kind, but I’m feeling particularly antisocial; too tired to make eye contact, let alone begin my usual charming rituals. The worst night out is when you can tell you’re not making a good first impression, but it’s a trainwreck you can’t stop. Fine, I’ll be the vibe destroyer with a resting bitch face for tonight — somebody has to take one for the team. I’m not partaking in the conversation — I’m thinking about everyone who has ever judged my music taste, referring to it as arbitrary and sometimes plain unhinged, though to me is perfectly niche and deliciously ironic in its whiplashed curation: think Joni Mitchell and Addison Rae, Bladee and Mazzy Star all on the same playlist. I’m also not feeling my outfit and wondering where I’m even going in life if I can’t pull off this tennis skirt that virtually anyone equipped with basic color coordination skills could do with. An excruciatingly long hour and a half. I could be in bed right now, doing something that makes me happy: doomscrolling, saving recipes I’ll never use, stalking my tech bro exes to see if they’ve launched a useless AI startup yet, I don’t know. Irish goodbye, I’m out. Walking to the train station alone just to get catcalled by a bunch of teenage boys, and I don’t even have it in me to get vocally angry right now. If I was cooler, I think, this would’ve gone differently: either I wouldn’t have felt the urge to leave, or I would’ve enjoyed the music, or somebody would’ve been willing to walk me home, or I would’ve been intimidating enough to avoid becoming a whistling target. This train is taking forever, too. If I was cooler, it would arrive on time.

Act III. At the beach in Marseille. Who could’ve thought that the easiest and most accessible way to feel young again was to go on a family vacation? A fountain of youth to drown in. Local brasserie dinners and complex family dynamics force me to talk less and read more, a beloved summer special. With my fights to pick and grudges to split, I’m left to myself for most of the day, and the beach is a bore. And so, my distraction of choice is somewhat sophisticated, somewhat creepy people-watching. A beautiful girl sits right beside me, around my age or just a little older. Black bikini, sipping on a Red Bull and rolling up a cig as she’s recording a voice note, presumably for her friend. My French isn’t phénoménal, but I understand most of what she’s saying: they’re planning a small apéro tonight and discussing who’s coming. At this point, the drama I gathered via shameless eavesdropping is that someone backed out of the plan and she’s pissed about it. I’m bored and overheated, only one more ouf from walking up to her and inviting myself to the doomed party. She’s verbally expressive in the best French manner, her accent far from Parisian, her dissatisfaction with the plan starting to morph into a threat with every voice note. What would it actually take for me to come up and invite myself? Do I really want to go, or do I just want to prove to myself I’m cool enough to get invited? Either the sun or solitude fried my brain and I’m not thinking straight. I brush it off. You see, if I was cooler, I would’ve done it, sparkly and bubbly in my approach, to hell with the language barrier. Or better yet, I wouldn’t feel so starved for a party in the first place. I would maybe have a party of my own, one that doesn’t include bickering with my mother.

What makes me feel cool, then? Compliments from women. Respect. My taste in film, media, vintage. Writing. Being helpful. Making stuff with my hands. Rehashing old drama at my best friend’s kitchen table. Kissing hot people. Cooking for hot people. Fine, I’ll admit it, male validation is up there on the list, too. Ordinarily, the concept of things makes me feel cool — unfortunately, reality scarcely does. The concept of being me is cool, carefully curated in every edition I store across separate folders in the right order: work edition, writer edition, daughter edition, friend edition, french-adjacent edition. The folders can coexist and I fluently switch between them contextually, but they rarely —if ever— overlap. The concept of being a writer gets me off like nothing else. But the process of writing? Don’t ask: couldn’t be more uncool if my life depended on it. My writing process resembles a manic episode in a straitjacket, chained to the bed or the desk, rubbing my eyes into oblivion, typing away, erasing in a frenzy as if I’m anything but a finite source of puns and words I throw together hoping for the best. Imagine playing Cards Against Humanity but all your cards are painfully unfunny and lacking sharpness, that’s how it goes. “Again tried to write,” Kafka’s diary entry from October 21, 1913, goes, “Virtually useless. Almost lost my head.” The concept of a night out, beer pouring, vigorous music puncturing my ears. The concept of standing up for myself, doing what I think is right, and not backing out when I’m scared. The concept of being asked to write, not begging for a byline. The concept of striking up a conversation with a stranger, a golden ticket to every soirée. The reality just doesn’t measure up. Insecurity gets in the way, and I’d be damned if I were above my ego. I ask coolness to be patient with me and give me time to right my wrongs, but I think she doesn’t want to talk to me right now. Remember when I wrote about wanting to be beautiful more than anything in the world? Yeah, well, scratch that, I think I’d choose being cool over beautiful any day.

To be relevant, to be protected, to be accounted for, to be sufficient with or without. To feel safe, to be accepted with no objections, to be included and looked up to. That’s what being cool means to me. Well, is it innate, or is it earned? Subjective or objective? All-encompassing or situational? Does coolness grant your wishes, or does it pull the trigger on itself, exposed to envy and judgment? I’d like to think I’ve looked around and observed cool people enough to know the answer to these questions to try and at the very least imitate, getting close enough to orbit in the same spaces and their good graces, but I don’t and I haven’t. Still on the outside, knocking on doors, taking one step forward and seventeen back. You’d think paving your way on your terms would make you cool by default and definition — but the more I try to carve out a space for myself in the world, the more uncertain I feel. My huge ego and my doubt, like oil and water, don’t mix. I found that you can become everything you’ve ever wanted against your cynical convictions, reach the pinnacle of everything you could (and couldn’t) ever hope for, and still not meet your standards. You also can’t overachieve your way out of this feeling. Aim high, bruise harder. It’s your personhood shipwrecked, claustrophobic bargaining for approval from no one and nothing in particular, only from the person who will never accept you: yourself. We live in the attention economy, and I’m scared I don’t have what it takes to keep my own attention on me, let alone entertain others. I am the problem, and I am the solution, and I am the obstacle between the two.

And maybe, on the days I’m feeling this weak and uncool, an afterthought in every story, I can stitch up the wound just by confessing that I really, really care about these frivolous things, and they’re not something I’ve grown out of. I need a byline; I want to be known. I need a prom queen title; I want to be invited. I want to be in a room full of people without feeling alone and socially incompetent for once. I go to bed hoping l wake up a little cooler. Blasphemous, but don’t we all? Strip it all down and you’ll find it’s just love we’re after in the end, not some status of endless recognition and praise. The good news is love is everpresent and potent, a force to be reckoned with, and it doesn’t care how many credits you have to your name, where you go or who you know, your spot on the unspoken cultural and social relevance rankings, the parties or the dive bars. The bad news is I don’t think I’m ready to part ways with my childish desires just yet.