I was never in the cool crowd in high school. My best friend was much cooler than I, and I got close to some cool people by association. Not the same as having cooliousity myself.
Now my high school, Roger Ludlowe in Fairfield, Connecticut, is having a birthday bash this fall to celebrate the fact that we all are turning 70 or have recently turned 70. I wasn’t going to go, but the party is being billed as possibly the last get-together we’re ever going to have.
And this is possibly my last chance to be cool.
Don’t get me wrong. I’ve been cool many times to many people. Just not in high school.
My children thought I was cool. Sometimes. Well, maybe that one time on a Friday afternoon in July of 1982?
My grandkids think I’m cool. When they’re not laughing at me. All in good fun, right grandkids?
And my students thought I was a cool teacher. The police had to intervene only once. Or twice. I warned the vice principal to wear clip-on ties.
Now I have just a little over three months to develop some coolness.
My twelve-year-old grandson is the height of cool. He’s Mr. Cool. He’ll tell you that himself, and he ain’t fooling. He’s visiting next week, so I’m going to have him give me some pointers. I’m breaking into the cool crowd, you hear me? So look out, people, ‘cause here I come! And I ain’t fooling.