I favor the type of acrylic French tip nails that are considered fashionable only by midlevel porn stars. I still wear Uggs. Pink is my favorite color. I've seen the movie "G.I Jane" twice, and not for camp value. I thought it was good.
Today, I embrace my uncool preferences.
I used to have to fake liking Raymond Carver novels and understanding Neil LaBute movies, but now I'm free.
This is a profound change. And I understand that seismic personal shifts are rarely associated with Demi Moore movies, but hear me out. The things that truly appeal to us are a reflection of our genuine personalities. Like it or not, the real me has some really cheesy taste. The more I've come to celebrate the tacky things I love, the more comfortable I've become with myself.
Seeing a movie in Silver Lake makes me feel like the rest of the world is Beck and I'm Josh Groban. I like the Valley, the blown-out look of the flora off the side of the 101. I relish Studio City with its strip malls and Mystic Tanning salons and La Salsas. When I visit my aunt in Northridge, I savor the cul-de-sacs and minivans as much as the Santa Ana winds.
Speaking of which, last time I was visiting my aunt in the 818, I said to my college-age cousins as they stepped out to go dancing, "Are you going to get your groove on?"
I was sort of being ironic, but mostly, I was just being earnest. And earnest is the most uncool thing you can be.
"Teresa," my cousin Josh said. "You can't say that anymore. In fact, could you not say that again, ever? Why don't you just ask us if we plan to 'bust a move?'"
Even my lingo is lame.
I can't play pool or play poker. If it's time for a leisure activity that reeks of wealth or coordination, I'm out. I've never skied, been within a gurney's distance of a snowboard, played soccer, played blackjack or gone surfing. There are two "sports" at which I've excelled: ballet and Ping-Pong. While I truly can play a mean game of table tennis, I notice there haven't been many movies celebrating the dark, defiant world of the pong hustler. Daredevil ballerinas? Those are just the girls who don't throw up lunch.
If there is any occasion for nonchoreographed "freestyle" social dancing, I will "bust a move" on out of there. Social dancing is for the uninhibited. I am uptight. Today, I don't fight that. I gladly sit out this dance and every other, no matter who grabs me by the arm and squeals, "C'mon, it'll be fun. This is my song!"
Sometimes, my true tastes happen to intersect with something that actually is hip; as they say, even a broken clock is right twice a day.
I've always enjoyed single malt Scotch, for example. I drink it straight up, which seems to impress people. This isn't because I'm too fashionable to imbibe Chablis or a "so two years ago" apple martini; I just like the taste of top-shelf booze and I don't like ice melting into my good liquor. I also happen to live in Koreatown, which if I'm not mistaken, falls into the category of being so uncool it's cool. I'm just here for the cheap housing and decorative gang tags, but folks seem to find this aspect of my lifestyle surprising, in a good way, like I'm gritty and urbane.
What's more, Judaism seems to be in a chic phase. Is Teri Hatcher not the hottest of the "Desperate Housewives"? This year, everyone wanted to "Meet the Fockers," making it one of the highest-grossing comedies of all time. The Fockers were cool.
I notice when people ask where my column appears, I no longer say "in a local weekly newspaper," thus avoiding the J word, like I did for years.
But this isn't just because hipsters throw out Yiddish words now and Ben Stiller and Barbra are machers. It all goes back to Demi, and to deciding to figure out what I truly like, not what I should, and to accepting all of it. I'm not talking about meeting strangers and bragging about the pink and the Ping-Pong and suggesting we sit down for a screening of "Striptease: the Director's Cut." There are some things you can keep to yourself, or let out in time. What I'm describing is an inner comfort with the totality of what makes you, from the accidentally cool to the supremely kitschy.
When you stop wasting time trying to figure out what's cool so you can convince yourself to like it, you can begin what is, in a way, a spiritual practice. You can know that if last year's Ugg fits, wear it.
Teresa Strasser is an Emmy Award-winning writer. She's on the Web at www.teresastrasser.com.
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