Of old age and coolness

My sister has always been much cooler than me. She’s younger, smarter (as in Mensa smart), has better fashion sense, was always popular, and was always up on hip, obscure pop culture.

She’s cool. I got the dork gene.

Even as an adult, she’s outcooled me by leaps and bounds. This week, for instance, she became one of just a handful of female NRA handgun instructors in her state. Well, on the whole East Coast, actually.

I don’t have any feathers in my cap. I have dog hair in my sandwich.

I’m not complaining. I had a run at coolness. For a few years during my stint covering Christian music I was the envy of a handful of pre-adolescent teens at our church who were obsessed with Skillet. But that eventually wore off and when I stopped covering entertainment I faded into obscurity. Just me, the dogs, the cat and the chickens.

There’s a part of me that is resigned to living out my days anonymously in my dust-filled village home. I will, after all, turn 47 at the end of the month. I mean, I’m past middle age. Where does one go from here?

Turns out, I can go anywhere I want. I could still write that book. I could take that road trip. I could even start a new career and put in 20 years or more. I’ll never be as cool as my sister but I can let her blaze trails. I’m content to meander behind, me and the dogs. She’s cool enough for the both of us.

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