I was standing in line at the vintage clothing store, wearing my practical 2″ heels and holding my black leather Gucci purse, dressed in an outfit that I deemed ‘toned down,’ when I came face to face with the cashier. There she was, in her dark lipstick, with the thick black eyeliner, tattoo necklace, and thin, blonde hair twisted up into Chun Li buns. In those platform boots and that mesh top. Her coworker, who registered as neither male or female, looked equally posh in a green jumpsuit and with naturally curly hair. As I clutched onto the white Comme des Garcons jacket I had lucked upon, I realized, wow, these are not my people. I used to feel like the employees of vintage clothing stores everywhere were my people, mostly because I, too, had, at one point, worked at a vintage clothing store. As I stood there, eager to brandish my credit card, I knew: no, I no longer play the part. I look stuffy with my practical make up on and in my teal Escada pants. I used to be able to go up to anyone working at the vintage clothing store and ask with a defined air of cool, “What’s going on tonight?” Nothing’s going on tonight – not for me. I’m going straight back to my apartment, flipping on the TV, and parking my ass on the couch for like six hours. I guess there’s something dignified about growing out of going to warehouse parties every weekend for years on end, but seeing as I haven’t grown into anything more scintillating yet also more age appropriate, it just kinda feels like defeat for now. I don’t know who the coolest bands are, I don’t know where the coolest underground clubs are, and I don’t dress like the coolest chick in here anymore. I used to. Sure, there’s something to be said for the pandemic stripping away my profound sense of coolness, but it was already waning before all that happened. God, look at me now. I work a regular job, I pay my bills, and after a recent speeding ticket, I drive like a Berkeley resident. How fucking boring. I’ve lost my edge, and as I wait for the young, white couple ahead of me to pick up their money from selling their clothes, I wonder: do I even want it back? I sigh, knowing damn well that I traded in ‘my edge’ for my own apartment, a car, and a slew of nice purses languishing in the back of my closet at home. No, I don’t want it back. I’d rather be boring and rot atop a pile of designer clothing alone than have to perform youth all over again. After all this time, I can pass for someone with a Bachelor’s degree in liberal arts. Fuck, I probably look like I voted for Joe Biden! Oh…fuck, I did. Damn it. I’ve definitely lost my edge. All I really have left is shop lifting cheap make up from Target – it’s the last death rattle of a disenfranchised teenage girl who used to toot up on blow and fuck random guys in the bathrooms at parties. This is so upsetting. I should probably just get black out drunk about it and forget all about it.