Libby Hill

I am not cool.

If you saw me walking across campus you would not ever confuse me as someone that is cool. I mean, look at my picture, you can tell that there is absolutely no coolness masquerading itself there.

This is why I don’t understand why so many of my friends expect me to have the capacity to appreciate things that the general populace consider “cool.” It is completely beyond me.

It was while I was sitting at the Wilco concert this week that all of these facts came rushing back to me.

I think it happened when two teenage girls gave me a look that I distinctly remember I used to give my mother when I suspected that she was trying to be “hip.” Or perhaps it was when the people behind me repeatedly applauded (and screamed) in appreciation of the feedback the guitarists caused.

Whichever it was, it convinced me that not only was I not cool, but I had, at some point in time, gotten OLD. This realization depressed me to the point that I thought I might enjoy the encore more in the lobby. And I did.

And it was in the lobby (playing Donkey Kong Country, as a matter of fact) thinking about what an uncool, married, old person I was, where I realized that I didn’t care!

So what if I didn’t like a bunch of alt-country hooligans! Who cares if my head was throbbing in time with the “bitchin'” feedback!

It doesn’t matter that the highlight of my night wasa nice piece of cake and a very amusing chick-lit book that I picked up after the concert!

Unless, of course, this series of confessions causes me to lose all of that “street cred” that I’ve built up through this column. Perhaps you’ve all been looking to me to see what awesome truly is. Hmm … if this is actually the case, then let me close with this: I, um, was just joking. And in actuality I am, er, rockin’ cool. Yeah. Damn straight.

Reach the hilarious Libby Hill at [email protected].