It's very easy to understand how young girls today can feel so insecure about their appearance, when here I am, at my age, still considering how I will look to the other moms at the bus stop.

I know it's absurd to think that I still want to be "cool" when I am pushing 40, but the thought does cross my mind. I am ashamed to say that there are times when I wonder why I was never with the "in" crowd. Even as an adult, I still wonder, "Who are the cool ones?" and "Why are they so cool?" "Who told them they were cool?" and "How do I
get there?"

I tell my teenage daughter to love who she is, because she truly is beautiful, but then I go upstairs and scour my face for the latest wrinkle. It's completely hypocritical. Why do I feel such a need to fit in, when I have been the same me for all these years?

One day, I decided that I needed to figure out what was cool. I experimented with my make-up, added some liner to my lips and curled my blonde locks. Instead of the usual "mommy outfit," I put on my nicest jeans and a tight red T-shirt. For the finale, I tucked away the tennis shoes and squeezed into my black 2-inch heels.

Could I pass for cool? Would people look at me differently? The make-up, the hair, the outfit ... surely the check out girl on register number nine at the new Wal-Mart will notice the new me.

(I know that a cool person would have chosen Saks over Wal-Mart, but the practical side of me thought it best to kill two birds with one stone. I could try out my coolness and also pick up the deodorant for my teenage son. I do love to multi-task – is that cool?)

Arriving at the store, I parked away from the front doors, so that I could make a huge entrance. My hips swayed a little more than usual as the heels clicked the pavement, announcing my arrival to Wal-Mart shoppers. I held my head high, shoulders back, eyes wide open and smiled.

As I strode the isles, for just a brief moment in time, I wasn't just the mom of four children; I was a woman – a very cool woman. Just as I rounded the corner by the Kotex, I fell. Yes, I fell. It seemed to happen in slow motion, my daughter tried to tell me between breaths as she convulsed in laughter. I fell – my ankle twisting inward in the too-high black shoes – and down I went on my knees. People were staring at me. I just couldn't believe that I fell in the middle of Wal-Mart. This was not cool.

Eventually, I rose and recovered. I dusted off my tight black jeans and limped away. My tiny fling with being cool was over. It was fun while it lasted, but it was definitely over. It was destiny, or so it seemed. Sweatshirts and tennis shoes are me, but I am still cool ... in a mommy kind of way. I know, because my kids tell me that I'm cool. Well, all except for my teenage daughter who now refuses to be seen with me in public!

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