Like many northeastern sleep away camps, mine was loosely affiliated with Judaism and primarily consisted of Jews. A non-Jewish friend of mine likes to say that sleep-away camp is the earliest, and ultimately most effective, push Jewish parents' make in a long process of nudging their little pride-and-joy towards marrying a similarly faithed girl. He's probably right.
But in my mind I was there because my mom coerced me into giving it a try; because I wanted to be able to blast Adam Sandler's "masterpiece" Stan and Judy's Son and Eminem's The Slim Shady LP without worrying if my parents overheard the absolutely obscene jokes and lyrics; and because I got to play sports all day--and basketball, the best sport of them all, twice daily.
Now, I was by no means the coolest kid at camp, but I did OK for myself. I was coordinated enough for a Jewish kid to compete in sports, so I had friends. Socials--otherwise known as the few times a summer when we'd mingle with members of the opposite sex who hailed from similar backgrounds and whose parents had similar motivations--certainly weren't my favorite part of camp, but I had a good time, and usually the food was passable for these occasions, so there was that. Overall, it was a pretty happy lifestyle.
Then again, I imagine the three young men I ran into last weekend would have a grossly different take on what transpired.
Image: Rachel-McAdams.netThese three guys were the princes of Camp Kinder-Ring. They owned the place. They were athletic, but especially good at those slightly alternative sports--you know, like hockey and lacrosse--that gave them a certain rebellious coolness a la James Dean. The best way I can describe them, in terms of appearance, is to say they caught on to the "Jersey Shore" style about eight years before MTV ever did. During the day, they walked around camp with their fitted caps rotated about 120-degrees from the front, and constantly wore sleeveless shirts and jerseys. The rest of us: basketball shorts and ratty t-shirts.
And when one of those socials came around, they spent an hour getting ready. While the rest of us hopped into the shower and threw on our "nicest" pair of cargo shorts, and, if we were feeling especially spiffy, a polo shirt, they emerged from their bunk rushed. Even the hour wasn't enough time.
We lined up anticipating their arrival. (Camp rules forbade going to these events without the entire group.) They made a grand entrance. Their hair explained the loud motor we overheard while waiting for them to join us. It was blown-dry perfectly in to place. They walked towards us gargling mouthwash, and spitting it out authoritatively to the dirt just as they lined up. And they always, always, wore fitted black t-shirts, khaki shorts and crisp, white sneakers.
Of course, once we arrived at the social, they were the most sought after of all the guys there. Simply put, they were cool. Maybe cooler than any 14-year-old should ever be.
Naturally, when I saw them on Broadway just a few days ago, they looked different. They looked older. And I might not have recognized them if not for the fact that they dressed exactly as I remembered them: the sideways-backward cap, football jerseys, sweatpants and dunks. Eight years later, they still looked like cool 14-year-olds. Meanwhile, I'm proud to report, I was absolutely not wearing cargo shorts.
You might think this post is going to end with me getting the last laugh. But it won't. There's no schadenfreude here. Rather than bask in tides turned, I felt a tinge of regret as they passed me by. What good is being cooler now? I'd have much preferred to be cool then, as a kid, when it was important to me, when it had good perks. Now, being cool just means more social obligations.
Luckily, I avoided this one. I crossed the street before our paths crossed and didn't say, "hello."
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