(un)cool

I realized two things today. One, I am not a naturally cool person. And two, I am okay with that. Now it’s not that I’m self-deluded enough to have gotten all the way to age 33 thinking that I’m cool when I’m really not, but more that I always hoped I at least had the potential to be cool and was just missing it by a few degrees that could eventually be overcome. “Cool” is one of those terms that gets thrown around a lot but is difficult to pin down when it comes to a specific definition, but I’ll do my best. From my perspective, cool people are those who have that kind of effortless quality to them—effortless confidence, effortless hipness, effortless social interactions with others, and so on. During the Italian Renaissance, this seeming effortlessness and grace with regards to dress, conduct, and art (when in fact there was a tremendous amount of intention, effort, and work involved) was called sprezzatura. And cool people have this. They wear clothes that have come out of a thrift store and sport unwashed hair with panache. Cool men can wear hats and glasses that would make any other man look ridiculous. Cool women can wear ugly sweaters and/or dresses with haughty expressions that somehow transform them into high fashion. In cool women’s hair, plastic barrettes are chic. Cool people don’t approach other people—other people flock to them, fluttering about like so many moths anxious to set their wings on fire. Cool people do what they like and say what they like and even their aloofness or lack of consideration has a kind of charisma and charm. They are known and they are in the know, but all in a kind of careless, casual way. Like I said, sprezzatura.

Then there’s me. Every once in awhile, I will wear a cool outfit. I have cool taste in music and films. I read cool books. I’ve even been friends with a few of those naturally cool people over the years. But I am not a naturally cool person and I never will be. I often wear clothes that have more to do with comfort and practicality than style. Accessories tend to baffle me. I make to-do lists every day and systematically cross off each item once I’ve accomplished it (somehow I don’t think naturally cool people do this). I wear old lady slippers around the house. I get the same haircut every time I go to the salon. I get excited when a new Newsweek issue arrives in my mailbox. I’ll have earnest conversations with people about fruits and antioxidants. And most of all, I have none of that sprezzatura. Social situations (especially involving people I don’t know very well) usually require a fair amount of effort from me, and there is an awkwardness and reserve that I feel are often readily apparent to others. When I have a conversation with someone, it’s not just the two of us talking—there are also the voices in my head. These are not the schizophrenic voices of the insane (at least I hope not), but the overly-analytical voice of my self-conscious inner critic, who is processing and judging everything I say and do, and the voice of my fledgling self-confidence, which is attempting to restrain or at least balance the judgmental voice and allow me to just be myself, whatever that is. I lack that sprezzatura because I want everyone to like me but the critic keeps telling me they’re probably put off by my oh-so-obvious shortcomings. And then the critic berates me for wanting everyone to like me (I can’t win). A cool person says, “who the hell cares?” and is liked by everyone anyway. I can see this, but I care too much (and think too much) to ever be this.

Which brings me to number two. While I think I’ll always have a certain level of self-consciousness and shyness around cool people—it’s just who I am—realizing that I will never be a cool person myself is a tremendous relief. It means I can stop trying. It means I can let myself off the hook about the shoes I recently bought that one of my students described as “grandma chic.” It means I can embrace my uncoolness. I can like my gauche habits and dork traits. Most significantly, I can fully appreciate my relationships with fellow uncool people. While cool people have this strange power of attraction for me, I often find it difficult to connect with them and feel at home with them, and I seldom feel like they care anything about me. I wonder if that’s connected—the carelessness that allows them to be so cool is also what keeps them aloof. Or maybe it’s that cool people can only truly relate to and have deep relationships with other cool people. Or maybe that I am artificially creating these barriers on my end, which is quite possible. The few cool friends I’ve had over the years have been my most difficult relationships. There has always been a level of fakeness and self-consciousness there that I haven’t been able to get past, and I know that has as much to do with my own expectations for myself as with any they might have for me. But my fellow uncool friends, well, they are gems. Their quirks and uncool qualities make me feel free and unselfconscious about my own, and that’s when we can actually love each other truly. I know that cool people have flaws as well—they’re just better packaged. Maybe the rest of us are deceived by this packaging. Maybe in their cool hats and cool but ugly sweaters they’re lonely and insecure too. Maybe the Kingdom of God will be all the coolness and the desire for it stripped away so that a world full of dorks and uncool people can love each other awkwardly and honestly, no sprezzatura involved. Or at least that's my (un)cool thought.