A while back, I went on a few dates with a guy who was really cool. He wore leather jackets and combat boots without looking like he was trying too hard. His hair was a perfectly-sculpted work of rockabilly art. When you really pressured him, he’d reluctantly tell you vague details about his band, which won a national television contest, toured with some major stars, and has its own Vevo channel. He didn’t like to talk about it because it was, like, not even a big deal or whatever. What I’m trying to say is, he was very, very cool.

Too cool.

He was so cool that I couldn’t function around him. When we’d go out to eat, I was elated that this obviously cool person was going on a date with little ole me, but as soon as anyone looked at us, I’d imagine what they were thinking and I’d mentally apologize. “I know! I know!”, I’d think. “He’s extremely cool and I just made a pterodactyl joke and choked on my own spit. IT DOESN’T MAKE SENSE TO ME, EITHER.” It was an exhausting self-esteem roller coaster with way too many bad dinosaur jokes, so we soon went our separate ways. He’s working on another album in Nashville. I’m knitting a misshapen hat. We’re both happier now.

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