Life after cool

Popularity matters for a brief time, and then not at all

Photo by Ryan Moreno on Unsplash

Arm candy. Table ornament. That’s what I used to be. What can I say? Puberty was kind. Guys who’d made fun of me in middle school started inviting me to parties.

They didn’t want me to talk that much. But I was a status symbol now. Wound up going to prom every year. And homecoming. Yay me.

In case you’re rolling your eyes, I get it. Going to that many dances was a mistake. A huge waste of energy. At least for me. Because I wasn’t going because I wanted to. I was going because I could.

The little nerd girl had gotten contact lenses. Grown taller. Thinned out. Her skin had cleared up. And now she could have friends. For a while, I reveled in my newfound popularity.

But not that much. I didn’t have sex on prom night. Or even enjoy a single glass of champagne.

What a shame.

Sure, it’s fun to dress up and ride around in a limo. To feel like part of an exclusive clique. But only if you lack depth or talent. Maybe I was talented, but I was skimming the surface of myself.

Cool people understood so little about the future. They had no idea that the so-called overachievers looked down on them.