I think it goes without saying that I'm not cool. But it becomes painfully obvious to me as I'm standing outside of Joy's school, waiting for the release of the first graders.
The cool moms are well-dressed with matching socks. They're friendly. They're on a first-name basis with everyone on the elementary school staff. And they talk about things like what kind of enriching projects they're currently working on with their kids, or how they've redecorated their house. If I get Joy's lunch made and into her backpack before she's left for the morning, that's about as enriching as it gets around here.
It reminds me of being in sixth grade, the youngest in the middle school, everyone looking at you like you're a freak. Or maybe that was just me? I couldn't remember my locker combination to save my life. I was in orchestra (or DORKestra as some people fondly called it). I had my hair in a partial mohawk because my hairdresser thought it would be a good look for the 80's. And I wore spandex. Purple spandex.
On the bright side, now nobody is trying to grab my boobs like those sixth grade boys used to. Oh wait. What is the bright side?