We Used to Be Cool

At least the Chevelle was cool. In my house we have what we call "car porn" and shopping online for a '68 muscle car is the equivalent of breathlessly Googling barely legal bi-curious co-eds: kind of gross but completely expected. But then the other night I walked in on my husband shopping for mini-vans on Craigslist. The office was dark but for the glow of the computer monitor and there on the screen was a white (white!) Nissan Quest looking for all the world like an orthopedic shoe, boxy and sensible, safe. I felt as if I had walked in on my husband engaged in a secret fetish. Only this secret fetish is not cross-dressing, it is Parenthood.

We used to be cool. We used to tell our friends about small reggae bands that nobody knew of, Latin fusion funk from countries we had actually been to. Last night one of our friends crashed at our house on his way down the coast, a single guy who spends as much time traveling to Indonesia for surf trips as he does "working." Zoey chose that night to stage a tantrum at bedtime and I fumbled as I explained how hard it is to transition from two naps a day to just one. We ordered pizza and drank beer. We gossiped about mutual friends, talked about the tiger attack at the San Francisco Zoo, reminisced about crazy nights and past girlfriends. There was some kind of context to it but suddenly Bryan asked our friend if he had ever seen Yo Gabba Gabba and I flashed on the white (white!) Nissan Quest. Conversation faltered. It was as if he had asked if our friend got off on toe sucking. I cringed and it got worse. Bryan excitedly turned on the tv to his favorite Tivo'ed episode (titled "Move" for those of you following at home) and made our friend watch it. But see! DJ Lance is trippy! Hear the ska beat? Look! It's Tony Hawk! Our friend sat frozen on the couch, his balls no doubt crawling up into his stomach at what parenthood can do to a man.

What does parenthood do to a man, to anybody really? Can we still be cool even though we know more about Brobee and Foofa than Manu Chao or other musicians that I can no longer even reference because I don't know anymore? If our latest musical exposure is Biz Markie beatboxing on Nick Jr.?

I would love to go to Indonesia, to sleep in and lazily swim in warm water without a toddler clinging onto my neck in a sticky fingered deathgrip. But I no longer want to spend my nights in bars that are so loud I have to lean in to the haze of bad beer breath in order to hear people talk. I prefer the sweet baby breath of Zoey, I love hearing what she has to say even when I cannot understand her words. And nothing is sexier to me now than watching my husband help Zoey put her shoes on.

We used to be cool. Now we are happy.