Because I have just realized that I am sufficiently cool, just the way i am. Really quite extremely cool. Probably much cooler than you, no matter how much you know about sports or how quickly you can drink a shot.
I went to a college (Kansas State) with a decent team, a rivalry, star players, etc. Camped out in line for tickets. Learned the name of the coach. Went to games. Kept up, afterwards, sufficient knowledge to participate in conversations with Duke basketball-loving husband and similarly obsessed friends, particularly in March. Frequently went to drinking establishments in order to watch the game played, usually by Duke. They play it rather well, I understand.
But I don’t care. Apparently my team is playing Kansas University, our big rival, right now. Even as I type, on the flat screen behind me. My husband is watching, but I’m telling you–I don’t care.
As for strippers? Not funny. Not kitchy retro cool. Not amusing at all. (To watch, anyway. Former strippers who preserved their irony, crushed men beneath their stilletos and now write rather good books like this one are indeed cool, and probably cooler than I am by a long shot. But that’s not what I’m talking about here.)
I’m talking about having a stripper at a party. You wouldn’t think that would come up too often here in the wilds of New Hampshire, but it does, or at least, it has, and I’m happy and relieved to say that I no longer feel the need to pretend I’m cool with it. (Not that it’s relevant at the moment, as this was several months ago, and it’s really the basketball I’m talking about here, but somehow I’m seeing the two as related, here, in my own mental world.)
Oh, not that the stripper-hiring people aren’t still my friends. We can like different things, and have different opinions on things, and still be friends. Or married. Or cool.
Although I am glad it’s the basketball, and not the strippers, on which my spouse and I differ.