It was nice today, and in New York City, any day in January that’s above 50 degrees, is cause for celebration. So I treated myself to an outdoor lunch (since the weather permitted) at one of NYC’s trendy bistros. I figured it would be nice to have a decent salad, an iced tea, and a healthy helping of people watching, my favorite.

I think my waitress was a model. She was clad in something scanty and couture, and smelled as if she had been doused in the scent of heaven itself. She walked as if every step was being frozen in some photographer’s lense. I stared, as if I was that photographer, clicking, clicking away.

“Yes, I’ll have the seared Ahi Tuna salad. Iced tea’s fine, thanks.”

With the sun directly overhead, I relaxed, leaned back in my seat, and commenced to watching the rest of the city rats.

Everyone was out. The businessman, dressed in three pieces, talked on his Blackberry to who I presume was his wife, or maybe his mistress, about the bottle of wine he should buy for tonight. The young gay couple, held hands, and smiled, exposing perfectly straight, ivory white teeth. The fashionista, a walking cliché, walks by carrying her dog in her purse. Her head was held high, balancing on a noodled body, and her glasses covered most of her face. I cringed. I thought she’s hot. But nowhere near my waitress, or any waitress in this place. Behind her was a woman pushing a stroller the cost of two months rent in the lower east side, with a child old enough to walk, in it. She was frowning. Everyone seemed to be carrying BIG BROWN BAGs. Everyone seemed to be carrying something, even the one’s who were empty handed. Everyone had on their best New Yorker. Two young ladies greet each other in front of me. They hug, and the first subject of conversation was about how relaxing yoga was. A man walked with his dog. A Labrador. He’s dressed casually, and seems without pretense. He nods to me. I nod back. It’s one o’clock. He’s not at work. Neither am I. And then it dawned on me. Everyone around me is cool. Everyone around me is lame. And I’m here, being cool, and lame, sitting in a fishbowl, with Ahi Tuna on it’s way, and everyone will see me eat it. And when I’m done, someone like me will see me walk by, and say, “He thinks he’s so cool, but he’s lame. He eats at outdoor bistros, in the trendy parts of town. He talks on his Blackberry to everyone and no one. He’s probably an artist, or maybe a musician.” And then that person will probably order blackened salmon, over pilaf and arugula, and the cycle continues.

“Ahi Tuna, sir?”
“Oh, Thank you.”

The waitress/model finally brought my food. Suddenly, I wasn’t very hungry.

It’s a strange feeling to come to grips with the fact that the cool of the city has infiltrated us all, but it’s not always a bad thing. It just reminds me that I am often a composite of the people I love to watch, hence why I love to watch them. Most of us exist somewhere between being vain, and being personally invested. And all of us shoot for cool, one way or another.

I pulled out my sunglasses, the ones that cover most of my face, and slung them over my eyes effortlessly. I sighed at New York, at the outrageous opulence, the cliché cools, and un-cools who are cooler and more particular than any cool, and all of us in between, who somehow are still… cool. I squeezed the lemon into my water.

“Check please.”