Fold My Laundry Please

Today was the day I do my class at the gym.  I really enjoy this class and I’m making some new friends there.  I got there early this evening and was sitting on my step bench talking to the old ladies that usually stand near me.  That’s when another woman walked into the studio followed by her teenage daughter.  The girl was the absolute picture of what you think of when you hear the word, "teenager". 

She stayed far enough away from her mom so as to somewhat disassociate herself from her mother.  She deliberately dragged her feet with each step she took, the heels of her sneakers slapping the wood floor and making a screeching noise as they scraped forward.  (Though she wore a smile on her face, mom’s eye kinda twitched with each screech.)  The girl wore a hooded sweatshirt with the hood pulled up and her head down as though she was avoiding the paparazzi.  She had on sweatpants that she wore pulled up to her knees.  (Which, by the way, is how I wore them my freshman year of high school.  When did that style come back?  But I digress.)  The Teenage Stereotype kept her hands buried deep within her sleeves and when her mom reached over at one point and gave her a quick rub on her back, Stereotype violently shrugged her off. 

The Ladies and I looked at each other and smiled.  Ahh, teenagers!  Those crazy, desperately misunderstood nutjobs!  We shook our heads knowingly and turned toward the instructor as class began.  Soon, everyone in the room enthusiastically stomped, marched, and squatted to the pulse pounding rhythm of techno-ized  rock songs.  (How dare they do such a thing to INXS and Pink Floyd!)  Everyone but Stereotype.  She was too cool to move.  She barely went through the motions and never once even thought about lifting her arms.  Heaven forbid someone might look at her!  How embarrassing that would be!  Occassionally she would glance around at the other people in the class scornfully.  Suddenly, I became the object of her scorn for a few brief seconds; and that’s when it hit me.

I’m no longer cool.

I looked at the "old lady" to my right.  She looked like she was older than me.  I looked closer.  Not much older, but older.  This old lady was probably somewhere in the 35-40 year old range.  I looked at the lady on my left.  She was also close to my age.  Then I noticed the shirt she was wearing.  It was an old, threadbare, high school t-shirt riddled with wear holes and topped by a frayed collar.  I didn’t recognize the school, but I definitely recognized the year. 

1993.

She was the same age as I am.

So now I’m not only uncool, I’m also one of the old ladies.

*sigh*

And so, in a desperate attempt to prove that if not now, then at some point in my life, I was indeed cool, I shuffled through the plethora of photos I keep in a decrepit old shoe box.  All I have left to do is scan them all in, and you, my friends, will be able to experience all of the glory that is me circa 1994…with a few 1988’s and 91’s thrown in for good measure!  So tune in tomorrow, same bat-time, same bat-channel, and discover the "cool" me!