the last vestiges of cool

Awhile back I called the front office at M's daycare and the young woman who answered the phone when trying to place who I was casually said oh yeah, that's right, you're the cool parents. The amount of pleasure I cleaved from those few words borders on the absurd. Being cool, see, is the last vestige of a former life. Of a life unwilling to bend. Who will still bravely go out into the world sans baby items. Or who will take her child to faraway places and breastfeed at the tops of ruins. Or whose partner had dreads, for god's sake. Cool, see. All was not lost. Breeding CAN be cool.

And then as the years go on I find the cool slipping. Little things seep in like inexplicable giddiness in the face of people dressed as cartoon characters. Or singing along with CDs filled with teapots and wee spiders. But I monitored the cool, monitored the slippage. I was still in control. The balance hadn't tipped.

And then the unthinkable. The thing I said I would never do. Could never do. That all but defined the very loss of cool. And the worst part is that I caved in fairly easily, after years of resistance, tonight I caved in almost silently. The slippage. The loss. The pain. I feel it still.

Without further ado I give you this:
The shopping car cart. And there I was pushing this creaking behemoth filthy wretched vestibule of a grocery container, dodging the teetering old folks who'd blandly smile and the gangster types who looked on and away with appropriate disdain. One man looked on with definite sympathy and as I went by I muttered dude I know, I can't believe I'm pushing this pile of shit either only to hear him chuckling as he passed.

But if you look real close you'll see six amber tips nestled in the back. And that can only signify one thing. Micro brews are in the house, er, cart. So take that, you cruel robber of cool.