Back when I was younger, I liked to imagine that I was somewhat cool. If not ultra-hip, I was at least cool-adjacent. I listened to all the good bands, and saw a bunch of them in concert. I was on the leading edge of a lot of fashion trends. I was an early adopter of the current fascination with tattoos, all the way back in the 80s. My speech and interests were cool. At least I thought so. After today, I feel knocked down a few pegs.
I never actually met the couple who made me realize I'm not as cool as I remembered being. I just hung out in their house, without them, for two and a half hours. I held an open house for a fellow broker, and even she carries ten times the cool points that I do. Her friends' house was full of art and memorabilia that made me feel stodgy and square, even though I recognized the value and references of a ton of it. I showed a couple pictures to my older daughter, who is twice the punk I ever was, and she said that this was the dream house every punk wishes she could grow up and have. I agreed with her whole-heartedly.
If there's one thing I could take away that soothes my faith in my decorating abilities, it was the knowledge that the color scheme was one I've used twice before. The espresso floors and taupe walls were exactly the same shade as what I put in the condo, and the wall color is very similar to the one I used in Charleston at the original Smith Park. So I have that going for me.
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