Anxiety

I’ve never lived anywhere cool

Like Chicago,

New York,

Or a loft in San Francisco.

I wasn’t raised in Philly

Or brought up on the wrong side of the tracks in Detroit.

I’ve never been to Iceland,

Or Art School,

Or even to a decent rave.

I don’t knit my own scarves or crochet bikinis.

I don’t know how to solder,

Or construct corrugated cardboard coffee tables.

And when I flip through the pages of trendy magazines,

I feel anxious.

Apprehensive.

Less than adequate.

I wonder if I’ll ever live the kind of life I see in glossy print:

Urban Retro,

Shabby Chic,

Feminist Marxist.

If I could tolerate the bands they write about,

Or even find that cool hoodie

With the graphics of cassette tapes

In nineties-neon colors on a white background.

And this anxiety wells up inside me

When I think about how short life is,

And how I can never fill this void with

Super cute handmade monster sock toys,

Or kitschy stencils of birds and cherry blossoms.

Until I realize that I could bring back cool

In the form of Midwestern girls

Who are comfortable being themselves,

And wearing clothes they buy off racks,

And listening to bands people have actually heard of

And simply not giving a fuck.