Learning to be cool

For someone who had no friends growing up, I really liked going to school. If I fell sick, I would throw a fit to convince my mom to let me go to school (it never worked).

It wasn’t the recess games I couldn’t join or the birthday parties I wasn’t invited to. School, for me, was a stage to observe and to learn.

To learn to be cool.

Being cool was the most important thing. It is the ticket to acceptance and admiration, which everyone knows equal success and happiness.

I was the second least cool person in school. The least cool person was once seen picking her nose, otherwise I had the title.

The cool kids were driven to school in swanky cars, vacationed abroad and smelled like vanilla. I got glasses at 6, had my hair cut at the same place as my dad, and went to school with an oil spill on my head everyday. I was going to have to pick a different strategy.

The hack I came up with, after years of careful study, was that to be seen as cool, even if I wasn't, I just had to act like I had seen it all. That I'm unfazed by the marvels of the world.

“Oh, you went to Paris this summer? My uncle said it's over-rated.”

Showing excitement is naive, unrefined. I had cracked the code. The frizz-free hair and the delicate scent had nothing on me.

The kids I intended to impress with my nonchalance were probably only vaguely aware of my existence (if at all), and no one was actually asking for my opinion on Paris, or anything else. But if the hypothetical opportunity ever presented itself, my bulletproof plan was ready. I spent years perfecting my act, walking the planet with my casual indifference and award-worthy resting-bitch-face.

I was finally going to win. I was cool now.

And it worked. With this newfound shield, I felt untouchable— a force the good, bad or ugly of the world couldn’t permeate through. Nothing was supposed to surprise me. Nothing could inspire awe. I could now navigate the world without the fear of judgment or rejection. Everything felt easier.

Fast-forward to adulthood, indifference is my default setting. Perhaps the beauty of my grand plan was that after a while, I didn't even have to fake anything anymore, it was who I had become. Incapable of wonder.

It hit me recently when a friend of mine invited me to go see a magic show. He was really excited about it, and I was cool.

I ended up not going (surprise, surprise), but later I couldn't stop thinking about how excited he was to go to this thing. It wasn’t about the magic show as such, but I couldn’t remember the last time I felt that way about anything. Why couldn't I let myself feel that way?

Had my carefully constructed childhood shield slowly morphed into a barrier I couldn’t escape as an adult?

This barrier was isolating me from the very experiences I once longed for. The infectious joy of shared laughter, the comforting embrace of meaningful connection, and the simple delight of experiencing life’s everyday moments. All the little things that make for a full life.

Perhaps real coolness lies in being free of the pretense and discovering the magic in everyday moments.

It’s time to unlearn.