I'm Always Home. I'm Uncool.

Something happens when you're 26. Or, at least something happened to me during my twenty-sixth year. It wasn't revolutionary or heart-stopping, and it certainly didn't require a flurry of invitations to be calligraphied and sent out country-wide announcing the news. There was no "ah-ha" moment where I broke from my suffocating cocoon to emerge as a new and profound creature. No, it was nothing so dramatic, it was a subtle notion that took time to fully evolve in my slow-cooker-style brain. But when the timer finally went off and the idea had marinated just long enough - wait, now I'm starving - it made me smile and for once actually think that these twenties ain't so terrible. Stand by, for I'm sure next week there will be a whole new boiling pot of hate ready to bubble over and my twenties will reclaim it's rightful mantra of "take me back to 16 when my world was my driver's license and my parents unknowingly funded my weed supply - thanks mom and dad!" But, I digress and today will admit that being a twenty-something has it's occasional upswing.

So, what is this upswing you ask? Why am I off my high-horse of hate? It's because the sweet relief of realizing how cool it is to be uncool has recently washed over me. How freeing it is to openly enjoy something you are interested in, however dorky, nerdy, dweeby, or... wait for it - my least favorite word to appear in Webster's masterpiece - lame it may be. The feeling of "hey guys, this is what is it and if you don't like what you see, you better move on" is now firmly planted in my thought process, and there it shall stay.

It's not as if tomorrow I will going strutting across avenues and along alleyways being outwardly and attention-gettingly different - in fact, that would go against what I'm saying. The idea I'm getting across is basically an after-school special staple... Be yourself, it's actually kind of fun. You love to read poetry? Hit up those stanzas as often as possible. You have a secret desire to become groupie numero uno while trailing Hootie and the Blowfish up and down the East Coast? Rent that RV, burn some mid-90's mix tapes and get on with your bad self. If you care that Yeezy's tour is pulling up to the neighboring arena and you attempt to hide your Daruis Rucker vintage T then you just aren't ready to fully embrace the uncool. Your time will eventually come, but until then learn the new lyrics to "Bound 2" because you're going to need them while trying to impress whoever it is you're trying to impress.

Now here is the funny part - it turns out I've been uncool for years, well my whole life really, if you can believe it - which I'm sure you can seeing as how I blog in my free time and good grammar is something I look for even in the dirtiest of text messages. All I have to do is keep doing what I've always done - take weekly trips to the public library, get giddy at a truly excellent pun, hip-hop dance the entire time I'm preparing for an evening out - but it is now that I will no longer try to hide these pastimes under a barrage of false interests. Attention world: I, Traci Lauren Rosenthal, do not care that bell bottoms are no longer an "in" trend. I for one think they will always be groovy.

As the aging process continues to chug along, sometimes at an alarming rate, I have high hopes for this newfound realization. I imagine at 36, 46 and 56 this idea will blossom into the greatest thing about growing older. Caring what other people think will become a thing of the past. The always unpopular emotion of getting excited will become embraced. And those bullies who believe otherwise will one day wake up and realize that they have spent their entire lives sporting a too-trendy facade. High school is long gone, mean girls are just angry women now and all those cute guys who made you feel less than for choosing to hang at your best friend's house over drinking at the senior's party are probably still holding up that cool-guy shield. Their arms must be getting tired.

So in the spirit of embracing the uncool I would like to bring forth a dialog that occurs in my favorite movie. This movie is Almost Famous. It is no longer hip, but as an aspiring "writer," (I use the term extremely loosely) who is completely envious of the reporters and journalists that get to experience the magic behind the music, this film will always speak to me. The era is perfect, the characters are like long-lost friends, and I will unabashedly cry during the "Tiny Dancer" scene every single time it is on the screen. The following discussion was my first hint that being uncool was not only acceptable, but personally preferred:

Lester Bangs: They make you feel cool. And hey. I met you. You are not cool. 
William Miller: I know. Even when I thought I was, I knew I wasn't. 
Lester Bangs: That's because we're uncool. And while women will always be a problem for us, most of the great art in the world is about that very same problem. Good-looking people don't have any spine. Their art never lasts. They get the girls, but we're smarter. 
William Miller: I can really see that now... I'm glad you were home. 
Lester Bangs: I'm always home. I'm uncool. 
William Miller: Me too! 
Lester Bangs: The only true currency in this bankrupt world is what we share with someone else when we're uncool. 

And thus I share this post with you. If staying home, being true to yourself, and having a spine is the essence of uncool, then bring it on. I'm 26 and want to be the absolute uncoolest.

Haters Gonna Hate

Ah the word "hate." Those four little letters are just filled to the brim with emotion. They stir up images of red faces and clenched fists and an almost comical portrayal of someone stomping around in a tantrum. To many that word is bad and off-limits and is put in a no-go-zone portion of the vocabulary. However, sometimes all of the connotative adjectives and politically correct terms in the world can not pack the punch that saying the word "hate" can. And lately, that teeny tiny little single-syllable sound has been escaping my lips a lot. And I don't necessarily hate it. See what I did there.

As always, let me explain. Currently, I am NOT living the dream. Although waking up with no work and nowhere to be sounds like a cloud nine situation to most, I consider it my own personal hell in a hand basket. Today marks day 50ish of my unemployment run, and let me tell you right now, the morale is low. Like Death Valley depths we're talking here. So naturally, when things get tough and the white people problems set in, I turn to hate. And no one is safe. 

If you would like to migrate over to my hate column, please feel free to commit one of the following acts of tactlessness. And we're off:

In the past two months, if I have congratulated you on something work-related -- ie. a big promotion, a new position, a well-received presentation I was lying about being happy for you. If you think this is harsh, just you wait. You'll really find me appalling before you finish reading. I'm not mad that you have achieved something great in your professional career, I just hate you for it. When I am re-employed and waking up each morning with a purpose again, I promise to be happy for you and your ever-growing resume, but as of right now can it, would ya? I've sent out 70 applications, gone on six interviews and have, thus far, received a 100% rejection rate. So think twice about describing your brand-spankin' new corner office with actual views of the Empire State Building. Even if you think you are getting away with your bragging due to your shy, modest tone, just know that the h-word is flashing neon and zooming around in my mind while I sit there sharing a close-lipped smirk. In conclusion, I hate you.

Please, if you like where your nose is placed on your face (as if I would actually ever hit anyone, no one is more all-talk than I am), I suggest you do not bring up the subject of the dollar bill. I get it, we are all in our mid-twenties and struggling in our own right. To some this means that Ramen graces your plate every night and to others this means you better return those $400 shoes before that credit card bill floats into your inbox. As I've said all along the third decade is weird and wild - one minute you are living life on the Upper East Side and the next your scared to buy a new coat for fear of ending up back in Florida with roommates who go by the name mom and dad. So when you tell me that you really need to cut back on your expenditures, but you just got back from a two-week sun-and-sand dream vacation it will make me hate you. Of course I will be nodding eagerly in agreement, but on the inside I'm devising a plan that will cause a lot of pain on your part. If I tell you that lately my diet has consisted of canned tuna and cheap crackers, I'd be lying. There aren't cheap enough crackers in the world. 

This next one is a bit tricky because it's a fine line between love and hate. So let me approach this delicately... If you try to help me I will either end up loving you or hating you and that fact is unavoidable. The amount of people that have been willing to pass along a resume, contact a long-lost acquaintance, and share inside information with me has been overwhelming. I never knew I had so many yentas on my side. However, if you are extending a helping hand, but do not have any clue about my past experiences or my industry in general, I hate you. Like I said, it's a tricky concept. Do not send me an opportunity where the first line reads: business degree a must, accounting experience preferred and to be honest you will be sitting on excel crunching numbers until your eyes bleed. I stopped taking math junior year in high school, yes, high school, so show some respect to the right half of my brain and don't try to help me. Just occasionally ask me how the search is going, and I will keep from creating a voo-doo doll in your honor. 

There are many other, far more passioned reasons to hate, of course. I hate people for being ignorant and for not accepting those that are different. I hate bullies. I hate parents who are terrible to their children. I hate abusers. And, rightfully so, I hate tourists who lean their entire bodies on the poles in the subway. That pole is for EVERYONE! These people deserve what I believe to be karmically coming their way. Religion isn't my thing, but The Golden Rule sure is. 

So while many of you surely believe that this terrible, miserable hate inside me will manifest itself into a bitter and angry person on the outside, please know that you are probably right. And when I get my shit back together again, I promise to slowly siphon off the hate and replace it with just regular dislike and discontent. 

But until then, hater gonna hate. And there's not a damn thing you can do about it. Unless, of course, that thing is to get me full-time job with a comprehensive benefits package.