I have never been cool.

I mean, I’m cool in the sense that my nose is pierced and my face looks naturally disinterested and I am never the source of drama within my friend circle and I light my home with twinkly lights on strings rather than some cold lamp stuck to the ceiling.

I’m not cool in everyday scenarios.

Like the time I ordered Hoegaarden on a date. Who KNEW they served it to you in a fucking bucket-sized glass? I did not. So we order and his pint of Guiness comes and he smoothly accepts it and takes a sip as the waitress uses both hands to slam this monstrosity down in front of me.

“So where are you from?” he asks, looking at me over his nice little pint as he takes a sip.

“Woodstock” I respond, losing total sight of him as I lift up this bucket of beer and my face gets buried.

The other day I was doing a class at the gym – a cardio class where you switch between sprinting on the treadmill to push-ups to reverse crunches and back again. It’s tough. And the instructor is really intense and cool and all you want in that 45 minute time frame is to a) not die and b) impress him.

So I’m halfway through my set of jumping lunges and I can feel the key to my lock slowly dislodging itself from beneath my sports bra and before I know it it’s popped right out and is clanging onto the floor.

He looked down at it and he looked up at me and I pretended not to notice.

The next day it happened again, and in an effort to be all whatevs and breezy I simply kicked it out of my way.

Unfortunately it landed in that one tiny crack where wall meets floor and after a ten minute attempt at drawing it out with a bobby pin, I hung my head and allowed them to escort me into the change room to cut my lock open.

It was not cool.

It took a while – 10, years? 20? – for me to accept the fact that I was never going to be cool. I was never going to run into a stranger on the sidewalk and engage in some sort of flirty chatter. I was going to run into a stranger and spill my coffee on his shirt and wearily apologize for 15 minutes until he physically walked away from me.

But I’ve accepted my fate. I don’t know how to order wine without stumbling over the pronunciation, and that’s okay, because it’s who I am. So rather than make a bad situation worse, why not embrace it. Laugh it off. And learn.

Learn that when you fall on top of that man on the subway it’s not the end of the world, and it happens to the best of us, and that’s what makes the world go round. You might rip your pantyhose, despite your best attempts not to. There are more important things to worry about.

Because sometimes, whether you like it or not, your key is going to fall out of your bra. And sure, sometimes you might kick this key into a tiny hole and lose it forever. But when this happens – when the lady with the giant lock cutter comes barging into the change room and everyone stares at you standing helplessly in your sweaty tank top – you’re going to realize how shitty this situation is. You’re going to realize you don’t have to be cool. You’re going to think hey, maybe next time I should just smile, pick up that damn key and keep on jumping.