My husband and I argued about Jian Ghomeshi last week. “He handled Billy Bob well,” Kyle said. “Shows what a good radio host he is.”
I wasn’t impressed. “Sure, he did okay. But whatever. He’s still a hipster doofus.”
“Why would you say that? Q’s a great show! He’s a great host!”
“Great show has nothing to do with it. Hipster doofus is hipster doofus. If you’re over thirty-five and you’re a hipster, you’re a doofus.”
“You’re over thirty-five.”
I thought about this.
“And I’m probably a doofus. But at least I know it.”
I do know it. Because not only am I over thirty-five, I’m also a parent. And parents just can’t do hipster and get away with it. Trust me on this: they just can’t. I can’t. Oh, lord knows we try—we push our Stokke strollers along Queen West, take the kiddies to the Drake, fill the nursery cupboard with black onesies featuring Che Guevara or Johnny Cash—but we can’t pull it off. Not really. Because who’s kidding whom? You can pop a skull-emblazoned binky in your baby’s mouth and tote him around in a black sling while you hit the galleries, but at the end of the day you’re still wiping asses and wondering where you’re going to hide the giant red plastic exersaucer when the friends without kids come to visit. Which they won’t, not very often anyway, because you always end up talking about Baby Einstein and the latest diaper cream technology and you have to be in bed by ten because the baby will be up before six and who has energy to socialize when you’ve spent the day wrangling small children and picking Play-Doh out of your hair? You’d rather just pour a drink and watch American Idol, so why not just do that?
And it only gets worse: you will buy Thomas trains and watch hours of the Wiggles and learn, by heart, the theme to Elmo’s World. You just will. So what if you’re wearing Acne jeans? You have crayons and wadded up diaper wipes in the pockets and you’re humming the anthem of the purple dinosaur. Face it: you’re neither a PC nor a Mac.You’re a parent, which means that you’re terminally uncool, and not even in that better-than-cool ironic way.
But you know what? It doesn’t matter, because some things are better than cool, and you’ve found them. Just don’t give in to the hipster temptation to say that it’s post-cool or trans-cool or that uncool with kids is the new black. Because then I’ll just call you a doofus.