As long as there is nothing good on TV, Geri and I are always up for an adventure. "So...where are we headed," I asked, hopping into her climate-controlled car. "Conesus Lake," she said, gripping the steering wheel as we backed up. I held my breath and my tongue during the remainder of this process as "reverse" is not exactly Geri's best direction. I've been witness to her clipping Mark Twain's gravestone as well as taking out a tree in Chincoteague. Straightened out and headed in a mostly forward fashion, she explained that our cool friend Katie recommended a hip hang-out located at the lake. Well...by golly...if Katie thinks it's cool then it must really be the cat's pajamas. Let's go!
Less than an hour later, we pulled into the sparsely-populated parking lot and sat silently for a moment. "Is this what I think this is," Geri asked. "Yes. This is a bait shop," I answered, realizing that I've been a lot cooler than I thought was for a long time, having frequented bait shops regularly since the mid-80s. Now, to give the place credit, it was sporting quite a bit of personality, starting with its palisade of skis. We saved the train car hot dog stand for the grand finale, venturing into the store first. In lieu of rocking chairs, the front porch housed an army of inviting barber chairs. Naturally, I regret not having taken Geri's picture in one but, at that point, I was trying to maintain an aura of cool in case Katie was still right. A stuffed jack-a-lope greeted us upon entering the establishment so I still had hope in Katie's cool-meter. The dominating display of souvenir t-shirts made a valiant attempt to convince us that this was the place to be but our spirits sagged as we fought our way through the narrow aisles of fishing nets, mosquito repellent, and sparklers to admire their mounted license plate collection.
We headed over to the hot dog shack housed in a quaint caboose that seemed a bit out of place parked by a lake but Geri and I were really wrestling with the definition of "cool" by this point so we went with it. I was super excited by the menu selection that included fried macaroni and cheese balls. Had I had Katie's phone number, I would have reached out and touched her (In Facebook terminology, I would have "poked" her) when I received my requested hot dog. They'd vertically cut my hot dog down the middle and splayed its little carcass face-down on a toasted bun. Monsters. This isn't cool at all. I sought solace by stuffing myself full of deep-fried mac-n-cheese balls.
Disappointed, more in ourselves than in this hot-spot of coolness, we drove away, ironically and symbolically, in the wrong direction. "I might have turned right," I mentioned as we drove along the length of the lake shore. "Is it possible that we don't know what is cool anymore," Geri lamented. "This is the wrong way," I said. "Wrong in that, as mature, responsible women, we shouldn't live our lives dictated by what is cool and what isn't? Or wrong in that associating the word cool with that place is just wrong? Or wrong in that we shouldn't be influenced by another person's version of cool?" We'd, literally, reached the end of the road. "This isn't right," Geri observed, looking at the road signs. "I know," I told her, "we went the wrong way." "Why didn't you tell me," Geri replied, backing up while I sat beside her, holding my breath and my tongue.
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