I OFFICIALLY GIVE UP. For the past few years, I have spent far too much time and money doing things that I thought made me cool. I began working from cafés, looking like I didn’t want to be disturbed. I developed the terrible habit of ordering PBRs at bars even though they taste terrible. I’ve purchased several (several) overpriced t-shirts from various designers because GQ recommended that I do so. I went paleo.

However, at the end of all of these escapades, I have come to a single conclusion: I’m really tired. I’m folding, or whatever it is they say when they give up in poker, which I’ve never really made the effort to learn. Does folding mean quitting?

Fact is, besides tucking the bottoms of my pant legs into a pair of Jordans, buying super-skinny jeans and wearing large, silver cross necklaces from some Douchebag Outlet, I’ve probably tried every popular fashion trend out there. I stopped shaving my face, let my hair grow out a little and began wearing beanies, hoping for an edgier look. I started looking at deeper-cut v-neck t’s, but the handful of chest hairs I have looked awkward poking out of the Akira shirt. This endeavor in particular was not successful. I tried bracelets of charms and rings, but ended up looking like a broke, Hispanic pimp on welfare. This shit was getting exhausting.

Approaching Age 32 this year, I realized that I didn’t have many shots of being cool left in me; there were only a few more times I envisioned myself getting up, dusting myself off, and trying again.

I remember once sitting in a bar in Bucktown (very cool neighborhood), attempting to listen intently to one of those solo-acoustic/wailing-anti-corporate-america-banter-and-recommending-doing-nothing-with-your-lives-instead-because-it’s-more-fun set and, almost suddenly, becoming surprisingly content with the fact that I wanted the five bucks I paid for cover back. Not that I’ve been counting, but this precise time was probably the 536th I had found myself in that exact situation, sitting somewhere I didn’t want to be in an effort to show myself and any number of strangers in peripheral vision that I was totally into what was going on. I took a look around and saw these exact scenarios play out, only reinforcing to myself that I didn’t want to be here:

– Plenty of cheap canned beer being consumed by people in designer skinny jeans and Tom Ford plaid shirts. Beards everywhere.

– People bragging about not having a television, riding their bikes everywhere, and baking their own bread at home.

– Shockingly broad discussions about foreign policy between stoned hipsters.

– Guys making a point of ignoring cute girls in hopes of getting their attention while possibly trying to convey to these girls the vibe that they were much more intense than their boyfriends.

While out in River North recently (covers and bottle service are both very cool), I saw some very old, damn-near elderly dudes trying to dance with women far out of their leagues. Men who obviously haven’t understood, possibly even just haven’t yet come to terms with, the fact that they’re no longer as dashingly handsome, agile and, iconic as they once might have been. Their ambition was nevertheless there, which I guess I sort of respect, but still: Being cool or, in our case, trying to be cool, now feels forced. Will that ever change? Probably not, but I feel I’ll be able to accept age with grace.

Getting out won’t be easy. I’ve been buying the myth of cool for over a decade now and I know I won’t get clean overnight. I still have relapses in judgment and, when I come across some extra cash, will consider getting something solely because it’s cool. Each day is punctuated by a thousand tiny decisions that seem simple but carry much weight.

For example:

Moment: Should I buy Yeezys?

Tiny decision: When my father was my age, he had to pay for child support, alimony, a twelve-year old son and bills, rent, and groceries every month. No, I will not go for the goddamn sneakers.

Moment: Should we get a fourth TV? Middle TV for movies. The game on left TV. Right TV for video games. I don’t know that we need it. But football is coming up.

Tiny decision: My mom raised me as a single parent, juggling two jobs and everything else on her plate with making my Halloween costumes from scratch year after year. No, I will not pitch in for a fourth TV.

So, after not investing as much time and money into what I thought made me cool for some time now, I find myself with more assets, peace of mind, and energy. I stopped doing things that were supposed to be cool only to find myself doing things that are actually pretty tight. I enjoy writing, it turns out. I travel as much as I can, taking in landscapes, food, and experiences others dream about. I love with architecture, pancakes, and podcasts. It’s great! I can’t tell you who Trippie Redd is or if that’s even the dude’s actual name. I have no interest in your fantasy team or Supreme collection. I don’t give a damn about vaping, bro.

Truth be told, most of us tend to put pressure onto ourselves based solely on the fact that we believe that those in our peripherals actually notice what we do. So I’m finally, confidently, ready to remove the word guilty from the phrase guilty pleasure.

Watch this.

Dear readers, I am willing to admit, publicly, right now, that currently, I sincerely, without any hipster irony, really enjoy audiobooks. I'm about it. Having some guy smarter than you in your ear all day just changes the way you look at things.

Damn, that felt pretty good. Okay, I’ll try another one, check this out.

I love the $5 Box at Taco Bell. I know it’s not really that big a deal, but I’m Mexican and my family gives me shit for liking that place. I’m pretty sure my mom contemplated disowning me when I told her. I love having the $5 Box with a large-ass iced tea. Last time I was at the Bell, they were playing some sweet jams as I was placing my order, and I was enjoying it all: the anticipation of my Box, the cool, refreshing sips of my tea, the bangers on the Bell’s speakers, all of it. Loving it.

Holy shit, this feels awesome! Alright, I’ve got one more in me.

I love I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter! I was ready to hate the fake butter, but it tastes better than butter, and I honestly Can’t Believe It’s Not. It’s so good. It’s so good it should have been called Goddamnit, Are You Seriously Going to Look Me in the Fucking Eye and Tell Me This Shit Isn’t Butter?

Okay, reader! Now, you! You say one!

[Long pause.]

C’mon, you do one!

Hello?

Guys?

words

I'm Totally Cool with Being Uncool