Chronicles of an Uncool-Cool Kid by Jill Firns

Chronicles of an Uncool-Cool Kid by Jill Firns

Just a few nights ago, I was exiting the restroom at one of my favorite bars. I had just divvied out a number of facial tissues from my purse in my stall, passing them under the wall to my left, because the first three toilets did not have any toilet paper in their dispensers. I was thinking on what a strange little human experience that had been, when a young lady suddenly grasped my elbow. As I turned to her, she excitedly quipped, “You’re jillianskrillian on instagram, aren’t you?” I nodded, but before I could reply, she flapped her hands and continued. “I follow you on there and love your blog! You just won some awards or something right? That’s so cool!”

I find myself currently at a bizarre crossroads in my life. I spend a lot of time trying to decide just what “being cool” means. By many standards, I would qualify to be lumped into a category revolving around cool kids and their lifestyles. Outside of my two part-time jobs, I blog as well as DJ around town. I like to wear fun clothes and high heels whenever I get the chance. I shop at vintage, thrift, and local shops. My boyfriend and I go out to eat frequently, and have a few select bar haunts that we are at nearly every week. I am fur mama to a rambunctious pitbull mix, and live alone in one of the more sought-after areas of town for young adults.

I’ve always been a little bit different. I chopped all my hair off when I was a freshman in high school. I sported a strange, spiky style that got me called “Sir” more than once. I wore brightly colored tights under leather skirts, jumped around at metal concerts in my black Converse with my then-boyfriend, and painted my nails in every shade I could get my hands on. I played sports, dabbled in art, and listened to weird music – everything from the Cirque du Soleil show soundtracks, to the Belgian band Arid, to classics like Sting and Prince, to Japanese musicians like Miyavi and Gackt. I became fascinated with Loreena McKennitt and also The Fixx. I played sports, wrote goofy poetry, and lifeguarded during the summers. My hair went from pink to blue to green to orange to red to black. I was obsessed with Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter. I’m a true nerd at heart, and I will never let that part of me die. Senior year of high school, we were at our overnight retreat in Illinois, and a group of girls told me that they had once come up with a list of the top coolest girls in our class, and I ranked among them. I was flattered and a little confused. I was wearing a bland forest green t-shirt, baggy jeans, and leather Converse. My hair was a mess and I distinctly remember being incredibly tired that day. However, it’s something I’ll never forget.

Once I entered college, I recall the taste of losing an identity. Even though I went to a university that shares a parking lot with my high school, it felt worlds away. I was suddenly nobody, had no friends, and was taking art classes 24/7 when I had absolutely no idea about what I wanted to do with my life. I made a few friends here and there, but I now very rarely talk to any of them. I experienced, what seemed a little late, how to deal with cliques. I became familiar with what being an outsider felt like. I was friendly as could be, but I could never seem to keep friends. Over the years, I have consistently had friends stop talking to me without warning. This happened a few times through college. I didn’t drink until after I was 21, and now I wonder if this had anything or everything to do with it.

The few times I would go out, I would always feel 150% out of place. I hadn’t yet honed my tastes for whiskey and certain beers, so I drank cranberry vodkas, and usually only one a night because I was never a fan of the girls who fell all over themselves. I wore my first pair of Jeffrey Campbell babies out one Saturday, and another girl at the bar had the same pair on. I was with just a couple pals from college, and she had a whole entourage. All at once, I realized I was like that little sister that spies on her older sibling and their friends while they sneak vodka out of the house in water bottles. I felt the true opposite of cool. I felt late to a party I had never wanted to attend in the first place.

When I did go out, I went to dance. I didn’t go to be seen, or have my picture taken at the parties that had floating photographers or photobooths. If you want the honest truth, I never wanted to be what the incrowd was. I wasn’t into drinking heavily at the time. I didn’t care about the DJs, or what bar was coolest. The members of that crowd have greatly dispersed, and no longer “run the scene.” Look, the phrase “scene queen” exists for a reason. They never wore crowns, but by God! They operated in the flesh in this city. My old roommate and I would go out dancing every weekend, and I saw the bones of that crowd in the corners with their glares, bored stares, and smirks. As it turns out, approximately four years later, I started to enter that exact crowd on another level. One of the DJs I had never once paid attention to happened to flirt with me one night at a dance party. Since then, I’ve phased into the remains of the incrowd by close proximity to one of its party-starters, not by force of will or want.

I, by nature, am a complete goofball. I am not serious. I don’t understand people who take themselves so seriously. Perhaps that’s why I am so confused by the label “cool.” Traditionally, I feel like cool kids lived on the edges, teetering somewhere along the fence between popular and dismissed. I immediately envision the 1950s style of cool, with a “IDGAF” attitude and sideways glances – always being overly serious about their image. When in truth, I have never truly cared what anyone has thought of me. I may fret sometimes about how I might appear to others, in dress, or beauty, or accomplishments, but I don’t actually typically seek approval as rabidly as some others. I think that’s why I have separated myself from the term “cool” – I don’t look to be seen as cool. I am not concerned about having someone want to take my picture all the time, or how I even look in those pictures. I am not the most easily photogenic. Earlier this week, a  roaming photographer in the Loop asked for my picture with my friend Skylar, and I took a stab at making a “cool” face, and ended up looking more like a prime example of “resting bitch face.” Which, if you know me, is so far from the truth. My face is uncontrollable and often plastered with a grin.

This past Friday was the kickoff party for Saint Louis Fashion Week, which included the St. Louis Fashion Blogger Awards. These awards honored local bloggers for their hard work in various categories. Yours truly was nominated for both Best Newcomer and Best Beauty Blog. I snagged the People’s Choice honor in both categories. Let’s face it, those types of things are popularity contests. I had high hopes for winning one of the honors in the Best Newcomer category, but I readied myself for disappointment. I had ample and talented competition. To my delight, I received the People’s Choice in the Best Newcomer category. To my surprise, I received the People’s Choice for Best Beauty Blog. People must really like nail polish like me, as that is really the most common beauty-related post you’ll see on my blog!

jill firnsWhat I have found most interesting is that so many people were beyond excited for me to win those awards. Granted, they are indeed honors, but my only competition is myself. I constantly strive to be better than no one but myself. I am glad that I won, because I think it helped reassure the public that I am committed and I have a great deal of support. I never expected so many friends and family to act like I’d won something bigger. Their excitement did in fact make me feel cool. And, this is where it gets tricky. How does an uncool cool kid make sure that this all does not go to her head? I have seen how it goes down in this city. You get one cool gig, one nod from someone with a name, one accolade handed to you, and the next thing you know, BOOM, you become one of those people who goes places just to be seen. In my mind, there is a fine line between becoming well-known, and becoming famous.

I’ll say yes to getting recognized from the internet in public, especially in the safety of my sanctuary bars. I’ll gladly yap enthusiastically about my current nail color and favorite mascara and where I found my thrifted sweater. I’ll always smile at you, probably shake your hand and/or hug you upon meeting you, and will never act too cool for school. And maybe all of that qualifies me to be uncool. And I am perfectly all right with that.

Stilettos on Sunday Morning