“Not everyone is as lucky as you are,” is a phrase I’ve heard my whole life. I would just roll my eyes and march off, thinking of all the ways I didn’t have it made, all the little disappointments and injustices. My hair was unmanageable, I always had some pimples, my legs were never what you would call shapely. I was rarely permitted to stay overnight with friends and forget about going anywhere on a weeknight. I wasn’t what anyone would deem “cool” due to my penchant for riding horses and to make matters worse, I wore glasses.

Going all the way through school in the town you were born in presents its own problems. Guys don’t ask out girls that have thrown up on their shoes. Guys don’t ask out girls who write their English papers for them. Guys don’t ask out girls who don’t smoke weed, pretend to be dumb, and don’t wear flashy jewelry and experiment with makeup. High school guys don’t, anyway.

I had friends, though. They were all cooler than me. There was the cheerleader, there was the wild girl, there was the math whiz. I was none of those. I wore my cowboy boots and listened to the Beatles. I just wanted to be included on the weekend activities and have somewhere to go when I didn’t want to go home. I didn’t fall in with the girls who partied, I was no good at sports, and forget about being musically inclined. I just wanted to read, write, dream, and ride.

Enter college: my first attempt at fitting in. At last I was the new girl. I could be anyone I wanted to be. I thought I could finally be the GAP girl, the mysterious one, the smart chick. I’ll never forget my first day. I wore some short khaki shorts from The Limited, cute navy sandals with a heel, and a tank top that did nothing for my complexion but showcased my rack. I was so proud of myself. On the way to Morristown, I cracked open a can of sprite between my legs and ruined my dry clean only size 8 shorts. Luckily, I had a pair of Wranglers in the back from where I’d been riding the day before. Unfortunately, they smelled of horse and had sweat stains on the bottom inside of the legs where they’d made contact with the gelding. So much for being the cool girl. Oh well. Better than looking like I’d peed my pants all day.

I get to my first class, Animal Husbandry in Tech 130. I take a seat in the middle, happily noting that I would have been out of place in my shorts. Everybody was wearing Wranglers. This was where I belonged. I was finally with my people. Thank God for carbonated drinks.

Long story short, I made a ton of lifelong friends at that little community college. We came together over horses and hard work. I probably would have been better off as an English major, but I followed my heart and stuck with Agriculture, and it has certainly provided me with a decent living among honest people that I count more as family than friends.

Now, page 2, as Paul Harvey would say.

I have another love that started about the same time as horses. Books. I won’t bore you with the story of how my momma would take me to the little mobile library in the parking lot of the bank every week to load up my maximum check-outs….but I will tell you I have yet to find anything that comforts me more than a thick novel. That includes horses. Horses bite, no matter how much you love them. They also will kick you in the head, or get the bit and take off as you scream and try to ride it out. Books won’t do that, ever. I promise. And you can always stick them in the freezer if you get scared.

I had sort of lost touch with the library system as a whole after graduating college, depending on Books-a-Million and Amazon to satisfy all my fictional longings. When I discovered Amazon, it was like man discovering fire, I’m telling you. I used to haul around a list of obscure titles that I would search for every time I was in used bookstore. McKays wasn’t always the powerhouse we’ve come to know and love, there, newly transplanted Knoxvillians. But I was invited to join the board of trustees for the local library system and I jumped at the chance. Wow!! I was almost distinguished. Some might call me esteemed. And some might call me a snob, so I’ve heard. It’s true. I have a hard time getting myself AND my ego through the door, on occasion.

I’ve often wondered who I am to people. I know to many of you I am Amy Atthecoop. But who else? The Redhead With Crazy Pants? Johnny’s wife? Tiny’s Niece? I had this conversation with my hairdresser today. Depending on who I’m talking to, she’s either “my beautician” or simply “my friend Christy” because she is both and has been both since forever. It’s impossible to describe her without gesturing to my flaming hair. She’s dyed it every natural color of the free world, although I have longed for pink for two decades. Not very professional, or so I’m told. But neither is my accent. But it sets me apart. Never have I ever been able to make a prank call.

Anyway. So who are we? I was never cool, but I’ve found my niche. I have a well-rounded life. I have several close friends who know and love and accept me and my obnoxious attitude. And come to find out, they were never cool, either. Bullied in school, emerging witty and sharp, these chicks are at the top of their respective food chains. They may still not run in the popular social circles, but they are respected and admired and loved by many, including me. We may not have been the athletes or the prettiest girls, but now we shine. Now we know what’s important: and that’s not being identified for anything less than what we approve of. We’re comfortable and confident in our skin, even if we’re not size eights.

If you want to meet some fabulous ladies, come to my book club. We can also routinely be found at our favorite local watering hole. Where everybody knows our name. And where we want to sit. And what we want to drink. And they’re always glad we came.

Because we’re the cool girls.

And everyone wants to be us.