I'm getting worried.
One of these days I’m going to leave the house wearing a pair of highwaisted, long crotched, elastic waistbanded, tapered at the leg (but full in the bottom), with pockets-the-size-of-quarters, jeans. With a pair of sensible shoes.
And I will think this is acceptable behavior.
See, yesterday I was in the minivan (alone), and I drove past a Chik-fil-a. The cow was out in the front (like usual on weekends) waving his Eat Mor Chicken sign at the passing cars. I slowed down. I started smiling and waving. As though I had never seen such a wonderful creature in my whole life. Suddenly, mid-wave, it occurs to me what was happening. I am alone. I am a 32-year-old woman, and I am excitedly waving at a 6-foot-tall cow. There are no children in this van. This cow is not cool. I am not cool. Somebody please help me.
What made it worse is that when I got into the van a few minutes earlier, I spent the first 4 minutes of the drive singing along to the Wiggles until I realized that oh my God I am singing along to a Wiggles CD, and then quickly turned on NPR. (Which made me just that much cooler.)
When I search for things in my purse, I wind up with graham cracker crumbs under my fingernails. There’s a diaper in my gymbag. I have a coupon binder. I actually like Barney, and I was excited about the bigger role they gave Murray in Sesame Street this season. I carry Lysol Wipes in my purse. I hide sweet potatoes in macaroni and cheese. I actually heard these words come out of my mouth: You worry about you, Cooper. Don’t you worry about what Zach is doing. You worry about you.
Is this the inevitable downslide I swore would never happen when I was a teenager? Where is this all going? In a few years will I happily decorate my van with My Kid Is a Honor Student stickers while wearing a cat sweater? Is this how it starts?
I hope not. But I've come to terms with my level of coolness. (Which, admittedly, has never been that high). Now, coolish is definitely good enough. I own many more pairs of sweat pants than skinny jeans. I actually do prefer sensible shoes. But just in case things get out of hand and I trade in my lowrisers for elastic-waist mom jeans which I wear in public, I beg you, please, someone call an intervention.