On being cool.

At least four days a week I put myself on hideous display in the courtyard outside of my apartment during hoop* practice, as it is the only feasible space where I can work on things without breaking anything. As a result, people frequently pass by, usually with dogs  freaking out over the circumlocution of my hoop. I was engaged in said practice the other night, flailing to the crescendo of my impressive playlist, when two girls, maybe eighteen-ish, approached. I flashed a quick, awkward smile, and turned to go back to what I was doing until I noticed that they were slowing. "Can I see your tattoo?", one asked. "Um, which one?", I replied, extending my arm for selection. A brief conversation on the matter ensued, and as I thought they were about to leave the second girl asked "are you practicing for something?" "Uh..I'm just practicing in general. To be better. Than this." - I am so graceful. - The first girl smiled and said "you're cool, I can tell", and wished me a good night as I smirked over her inapt observation.


I am not cool. I am, in fact, quite uncool. A dork. Someone who plans her schedule around watching Doctor Who and collects narwhal paraphernalia. In high school kids threw rocks at me. Living in New York, I frequently wandered museums alone, usually spending excessieve time in the Egyptian and dinosaur related wings. Looking at that now, it all seems super cool (sans the rock throwing - that part sucked), actually, but that's because I am a dork. My social skills are quickly dwindling and are usually stymied by my monumental snark. 


People don't usually get snark. Sarcasm necessitates overtness to register nine times out of ten, and my brand of dry, cynical smart assery is most often mistaken for my being an ass. It's not that people may not relate to me, or that I particularly care if people understand my personality, but..the awkwardness. That terrible, palpable silence that just thunks down, taking the room with it. Then the staring. Oh, the feeling of being looked at - so wretched. I'd peel my skin down over my eyes and hide in it if I could, but I guess that wouldn't help anything. Note to self: grow out ill advised mohawk more quickly. FASTER. 


So, fine, I'm an "odd duck", as the kids say. It makes my friends hard won, and for that struggle I am fortunate to have incredible people in my life. It is for this reason I so highly value the trait of snarkery (totally a word) in others; really, I see facetiousness as an art. There's a fine line between being callous/rude and hilariously dry. See: Daria. By no means do I rank myself among the gifted, but I do feel qualified to assess this skill objectively. 


I'm sure the sardonic muttering to myself that follows the failure of my attempted social escapades cannot help, either. "Hey, there's that girl who flails about in a whirling ring like a confused goat, muttering to herself after insulting others!" 

Artist's rendering. 

The epitome of cool, clearly.

* Hula hoop practice, or hoop dance as most people refer to it. While white men may or may not be able to jump, this white girl most certainly cannot. Behold the tokens of my efforts at knee hooping over the past few days:

Outer right knee. Please note Sega box in the background.

Just imagine those washed out green spots being more vibrant and having hints of purple. I could only justify so much effort to capture the bruises on my shin. 

As a reward for your endurance, please enjoy the video below being thrust upon you. This is how people who have already gone through the process of extensive bruising and much effort hoop. SaFire is incredible, and actually the first hooper I ever saw. It is because of her I do this. Knee hooping starts about 38 seconds in, if anyone cares.