The Terrible Day I Realized I Would Never Be Cool

You can debate nature vs nurture but I blame the Smurfs.

As far back as I can remember, I always wanted to be a gangster, to be cool. However, as far back as I can remember I was always uncool. All it took was a music appreciation day in my first-grade class to let me know I was forever doomed to be square.

I’ve tried over the years to change things up and make myself seem a little hipper or edgier. My Star Wars t-shirts of the early ’80s helped me blend in, but my C3PO sneakers were a step too far. I didn’t tell the kids who made fun of my shoes about my Luke Skywalker bedspread or my R2D2 alarm clock. (sidenote — I’d happily chug a pint of Dagobah swamp water to have this stuff back.)

In middle school when the other boys began wearing Levis jeans, I begged my mom to buy me a pair. Ever the frugal woman, she opted for something called Smack's jeans with what looked like a lipstick kiss on the right butt cheek. Not cool, mom. Not cool.

I had my left ear pierced in 1989 and bought a gold cross earring, hoping some of that Bon Jovi sex appeal might rub off on me. However, I was blessed with meaty earlobes that refused to be pierced. I walked around town with a red, festering wound for two weeks before deciding I gave lobes a bad name.

I almost got cool in college, flanneled up like Pearl Jam with shoulder-length hair. My wavy, unmanageable mop was less Eddie Vedder and more grunge-challenged Einstein. It was a look suited for the philosophy department but not for general public consumption.

To make matters worse, I’ve never had what others might deem good taste in music. It’s a little odd given I was raised on a steady diet of Johnny Cash, Elvis Presley, Willie Nelson, and Bluegrass. After those promising beginnings, I made a turn music aficionados find unacceptable. I’m never listening to the latest it band and my music collection always lacks some underappreciated artist from some obscure sub-genre. I’m now unapologetic about my Spotify list because I can pinpoint the precise moment the music died for me — music appreciation day 1981.

Our first-grade class was given instructions to come to school the following week with an album containing their favorite song. Each of us would have an opportunity to play it for the class. This was 1981 and vinyl was everywhere. My dad still listened to 8-tracks and cassettes were just around the corner, but my entire music collection was on vinyl, and my prized album was Smurfing Sing Song.

A Smurf is a small, blue humanoid creature standing no more than three apples high who loves to laugh and sing. They were all over my television in the ’80s and all over my Popeye turntable when I wanted to shake my seven-year-old booty. The Smurfs’ quintessential album was Smurfing Sing Song, a collection of 12 quintessentially Smurfy songs. My favorite track on the album was the second song on side two, Smurfin’ Cowboy.

My choice of Smurf song should surprise no one, given my country music upbringing and my favorite film at the time, Smokey and the Bandit. I loved the Smurfs and I loved cowboys. Put the two together — it was my jam.

On the big day, I marched into class with my album under my arm. I lived for show-and-tell, field trips, and crafts days in school. This — a music exhibition where I could introduce my Smurfin’ beats to the rest of the kids? It was going to be the greatest day of my life.

The big moment was to occur after lunch with both of the first-grade classes combining for our musical extravaganza. Students would be called up in alphabetical order to present their music selection. With a surname such as Abbey, alphabetical order was both a blessing and a curse for me. However, on this day I was thrilled to be the first kid to lay down a track for the class. I genuinely had visions of kids snapping their fingers, tapping their little feet, and congratulating me on my sophisticated musical taste.

As things began, I realized something was wrong. My teacher, the young and lovely Ms Dillard, was not overseeing the event. Instead, the other teacher, Mrs Helmer, an older woman who seemed to despise children, was in charge. She called my name and I carried my record to the front of the class. I handed it to her and proudly said, “Side two, song two — Smurfin’ Cowboy,” like a boss.

Mrs Helmer gave me a look of disgust and told me she would play the very first song on side two and that was it. No special requests.

I was mortified! Not the first song on side two! You’re a Pink Toothbrush was the worst song on the album. This was going to be a catastrophe! As Mrs Helmer placed the tonearm down on the record, I inched away, distancing myself from the song that would inevitably turn me into a first-grade pariah. Then, my luck changed.

The awful toothbrush song began skipping! It had never skipped before. Mrs Helmer muttered something under her breath and said she would play the next song. Despite my having attended a private, religious school for two years, this was the first time I was certain there was a God.

I shuffled back to the record player once the song started. I wanted everyone to know who brought the party. I stood in front of roughly thirty kids, nodding my head and waiting for them to throw their hands in the air.

But, no one reacted. They were tiny zombies throughout the entire song, even when the Smurfs got to the part where they sang, “He’s a rootin’, tootin’, Smurfin’, cowboy hero, there ain’t nobody better, he’s the best.” The good Lord performed a tiny Smurfing miracle that day, playing my song, but these heathens didn’t care. It was pearls before swine.

When the song ended, Mrs Helmer removed the record from the turntable, placed it back in its jacket, and handed it to me. I slunk to the place where I’d been sitting and plopped down. One kid, my only friend Ricky, nodded at me. Ricky got it. At least that was kind of cool.

I didn’t pay attention when Mrs Helmer called Zach Ball up to the front. I was inspecting my record, trying to discern where I’d gone wrong. Why didn’t they like my music? Should I have picked another song?

My puerile introspections were interrupted when the opening chords of Jerry Reed’s East Bound and Down from the soundtrack to Smokey and the Bandit started playing. What the fuck was this?!?

I looked up and saw Zach flashing his stupid Cheetos-eating smile at the room, looking … looking cool. Chagrin overwhelmed me as I surveyed the crowd and saw kids nodding their heads the way they were supposed to for Smurfin’ Cowboy. One girl, Heather O, even stood up and started dancing! Zach got the people on their feet!

What was happening? No one said anything about soundtracks! Could he do this? Was this a thing? There I was, seven years old and I felt like a toddler, but Zach in his purple Bulldogs t-shirt and cool guy jeans was a miniature James Dean. I pressed my Smurfs album against my chest, hoping no one could see it, hoping they would forget what I’d done.

That was the day I knew I wasn’t cool. When my mom picked me up from school I was despondent. I sulked for days — so much so, mom became worried and asked me what was wrong. When I wouldn’t answer, she asked if there was anything she could do. I begged her to buy me a Bulldogs t-shirt, her high school alma mater. She happily bought me the same shirt Zach Ball wore on music appreciation day, but I never looked as cool in it as he had.

I’ve had almost-cool moments in the years since that fateful day, but I always manage to Smurf them up. And as luck would have it, I was too old when nerding became sexy. Essentially, I was nerding before nerding was hip and was Boomering by the time it was.

I came to grips with this reality long ago. I’m at peace with my abject lack of coolness. Being hip becomes less important as we age. At least, that’s what I tell myself.

I’ll leave you with this — whatever is happening right now and wherever you are in the world — Zach Ball, you can suck it.