In which I don't feel hip, but definitely feel square

So sometimes, like, I have a weensy bit of disbelief that this is, like, my life? I always imagined that somehow I'd maintain my sense of hip & trendy, even though I was a mother. And I have worked at it, man. Hey--I wear low-rise jeans, I'll have you know. And even thong underwear when the situation warrants. My chest is lifted, supported, etc. by the best Victoria's Secret has to offer. Unlike my grandmother (who was permanently bonded to her tube of Revlon's Wine With Roses), I carefully observe and heed trends in lipstick/gloss colors/formulations. And you know I can curse with the best of 'em. See, I sound hip & trendy, don't I? Don't I?

Then yesterday morning, I had me a small bit of a startling realization.

There I was parked in my SUV (the only redeeming qualities of which are the redness and the sunroof, and which is much more "utilitarian" than "sport" in my world) in the Parent Pick-Up Lane (don't know why they call it that 'cause there is no "picking up" going on of children or parents, we are in fact "dropping off" children only). I am, in fact, the only passenger in the front seat of said vehicle, much in same manner of lowly-paid/under-valued chauffeurthe children safely ensconced in their straight-jackets, er, carseats in the back. Having reluctantly relinquished control of CD player to said passengers (and as such am no longer dj even in my own car) and therefore we are currently rocking out to Funkytown as crooned by Lipps Inc. Thankyouverymuch makers of Shrek 2 for reviving that gem.

And that is the where/whyfores of how I reached to the rather belated conclusion that, despite my Best Efforts and Thong Panties (and the best efforts of thong panties), I am hip and trendy no more. So I get to feeling a bit hot and sickish.

In mid won't-you-take-me-to, I ponder how Huey Lewis didn't know what the fuck he was talking about with that whole Hip to be Square propaganda. In fact, I now hypothesize that Huey probably penned those lyrics whilst waiting in his own parent pick-up line, in attempt to make his own self feel better. Whatever. Subsequently, spend small amount of time wondering how I can ever rectify these circumstances. Promptly realize there is no help to be had. Possibly that is first and only efficient move of the day.

And so, decide to accept inevitable fate and begin rocking out with children before Funkytown is over. If you can't beat 'em blah blah blah. Song is nothing if not catchy.

I will now be pulling my jeans all the way up to my waist now, as a symbol that I have finally accepted the reality of my situation. I was always a little edgy about the exact location of my waist band in relation to my ass crack anyway. I may be square, but at least I can have a measure of certainty that my ass crack is safe and secure.

So I guess it's not all bad.