The low-swinging scythe of cringe comes for us all. 

Given enough time, every one of us will inevitably morph into the chopped, cooked unc that we fear so much. No matter our vintage tee or record collection; no matter our miniature collection or youtube viewer count. In the end, we will each have a day where we look in the mirror (metaphorically or, god forbid, literally), and the haunting spectre of our cringe will be revealed to us. I regret to inform you there is no cushioning of this blow.

For me, it was when I worked in natural wine in my mid-to-late-20s. I had worked my way into a job that was objectively cool: a sales representative (and de facto wine educator) position at a small wine distributor with an extremely boutique portfolio. I got to work with cool wine producers and growers; I got to sell cool wine to cool sommeliers and beverage managers; I got to learn the biz from a cool boss who was a known sommelier in New York City. 

I thought I was cool for maybe a month before I realized that the cool job and cool friends had left me in a place I never wanted to be: up my own ass. 

As it turns out, when you’re constantly worried about your public perception, you don’t actually process what’s happening in the present. I’m far from the first person to say this, of course. As a matter of fact, while writing this, I was reminded of an interview with David Foster Wallace that I read 10 years ago. When asked about one of his public readings, and whether or not he felt like he’d metaphorically “made it,” he said, “No… at the [reading] I was just terrified because there were all these people looking at me… I’d like to be the sort of person who can enjoy things at the time, instead of having to go back in my head and enjoy them then.”

In a similar sense, I was playing the part of Cool Wine Guy, but I wasn’t actually enjoying anything outside of its coolness value. I was drinking some of the best, most picturesque wines on the market every day (and often getting paid to do so), but I was no closer to fulfillment than I was as a barista making $7.75 an hour a few years earlier, blogging about hardcore bands. And it made me fucking hate myself. 

My whole quest for coolness was something that I had held onto because it helped me to vindicate in some way the dorky, queer, mercilessly bullied kid I was in my teens. If I could be cool as an adult, then it made all that bullshit “worth it,” right? But, I realized, the 27 year old alcoholic being condescending toward someone mistaking Gruner Veltliner for Muscadet in a blind tasting is absolutely, monumentally more of a fucking loser.

Luckily, realizing my own cringeness helped me to drop the act; it helped me to kill the Cool Guy in my head. It allowed me to be stoked and approachable, instead of layering ironic detachment and aloofness like I had been. I felt myself getting excited about things again, and I realized, maybe for the first time, that I’d much rather be seen as a passionate dork than feel like I’m too cool for something ever again. 

When I was a teenager, I stopped painting Warhammer Fantasy miniatures because I didn’t want the kids at my school to think I was a dork. And when I was in high school, I was glad I did, because I thought of the dorky kid I was, and I cringed. And when I was in college, I stopped wearing band shirts to class because I wanted to fit in and be more social. And when I was in my mid-20s, I was glad I did because I thought of the dorky college kid I was, and I cringed. And now I look back on that guy in his mid-20s who had eradicated all the dorky shit in his life, the guy who was finally cool, and I cringe. I’m sure that years from now, when I re-read this post, I will also cringe. 

If you’re living correctly, you’re always going to cringe when you think about who you were last decade, last year, or even last week. The object of life is not to reach coolness, or even acceptance, as some metaphysical state of being: it’s the eternal pursuit of self-discovery and -rediscovery. 

And don’t get me wrong. It’s awesome to have a cool or record shirt collection, and it’s great to have really sick looking miniatures or terrain–but no amount of money spent on eBay, or time spent killing yourself for your art, will replace the thirst in your soul for being childishly, cringily excited about a new hardcore release or a new game. The Cool Guy you see on Instagram does not exist; the Cool Guy version of yourself that you tow around in your head does not exist. All that exists is you, in this moment, cringe to your core. Tie a noose around the neck of the Cool Guy in your head. Let the cringe consume you; let it ooze from every pore.