I was reminded that I am not one of the ‘cool’ kids. To understand, you’ll need to know a few basic things about me. I am 28. I have three kids. I am at least 30 pounds heavier than I want to be. I am ghostly pale. I have never been a member at a gym before. As a matter of fact I must confess that the biggest motivator for me to go to the gym now is that I can have someone else watch my kids while I go and watch TV work out for 45 minutes and then shower and take my time getting ready. Then when I do shower and get ready, I am acutely aware that there are other women in the locker room at that very second that are thinner and less sweaty than I am. So that’s your basic picture here.
So there I am, trying to put my lotion on and get dressed in the locker room without exposing any part of my body to the girl about ten feet away that has just finished her workout. You can tell she’s cool. She knows it, I know it. She just oozes that confidence that comes with knowing that you’re cool. She is tan, trim, and probably 23 years old. She has a very cute little exercise ensemble comprised of new-looking sneakers, cute little black shorts and a red sports bra. Yeah, no shirt. Fan-freaking-tastic. : )
Then she talks to me. Dang it. She asks me a question about the cost of renting a locker or something like that. I am immediately transported back in time 15 years. A different locker room— different ‘cool’ girls ten feet away and different self-confidence issues. Back then it was acne, wondering when I was ever going to start looking like a mature female, wishing my parents made more money so I could get one of those cool Adidas bags. And wishing I was cool like them. Different time, different issues, but the same heart-pounding wish that I could just be…more smooth.
Back to the present day locker room scenario. I dorkily rack my brain, trying to remember what that email that I got a couple of weeks ago said about the cost of permanently renting a gym locker. I only skimmed it, knowing that a fee like that was not in our budget. You know when you just know that you’ve come across as a dork? Like you’re trying too hard? Yeah, that was me.
Anyway I got through that little conversation and started washing my face and getting my makeup on. Cool Girl wrapped herself up in one of those teeny little gym bath towels and trotted off to the shower. (Side note: she didn’t actually trot. I am simply trying to convey her general spirit of carefree-edness. Yes that is a word.) As I’m washing my face she comes trotting back out and asks if I have any face wash she can borrow. Of course I bumble all over myself offering her some of my Cetaphil—which she’s never heard of. And I start thinking, “Crap! Is even my face wash dorky?!”
So here’s the thing. I’m dorky. I always have been and probably always will be. I have wonderful friends that can appreciate that about me. And I have an amazing husband that thinks my dorkiness is actually cute. (Please don’t tell him those two words have drastically different meanings.) So for the most part I’m pretty happy with my general persona. But there are those times. Those locker-room, Buckle sales clerk, trying to figure out if I can actually pull off the whole scarf with T-shirt look times that I am totally a dork. I get through them and give the evil eye to those darn girls trotting by in their cute little scarves. Who wants to trot everywhere anyway? I’m tired just thinking about it. : )
Cue reel of photographic dork evidence:
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| I started out quite cute! I'm the little one who looks like she's pooping her pants.
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