I was a carefree hipster once. Now I'm a middle-aged soccer mom. Possibly dowdy, definitely uncool. Some times, among the bedlam of raising a family, I try to reconnect with my younger "hip" self.

Last week while hanging out with some friends at their beautiful cabin, I attempted to dust off my water skiing "skills." Sure it's been perhaps a billion years, but it's like riding a bicycle, right? Throw me a ski (note - not smart enough to start with two). What's the worst that can happen? ... The odd thing about ripping your hamstring is you feel it go. Imagine, if you will, a browning aged window shade - brittle from non use - snapping. That's the vision that ran through my head as my good ole friend swung back and enthusiastically asked, "Want to try again? " "Naw," and then after an embarrassing non-mobile hour or two, casually asking, "Is there a clinic nearby?"

Yeah, so I'm aging a little and, perhaps, struggling a tad with that fact. Recently, my girlfriend and I took our teenage daughters to the Gwen Stefani concert. Let me tell ya, there is no hiding from middle age at a hip-hop concert. Young, beautiful girls and their 30-something-year-old moms, prancing through in stilettos, push-up bras and miniskirts. There I am - hulking around in my Doc Martins (think Fred Flintstone) squeezed into a pair of culottes (the hip term now is capris) and an orange striped shirt that my daughter said makes me look like a clown. I use to be cool. Now I'm a clown.

Perhaps an indication of my effort to stay in tune with my gypsy soul is my hairstyle (or lack thereof). Semi-long, rather unruly and without much thought. Yet, I can't seem to bring myself to cut it for fear it will instantaneously launch me straight into June Cleaver's kitchen. Yes, I have the middle-age bloat belly, crinkles and creases, spinney little blue lines on my leg, and the upper-arm blubber to identify my age bracket. I'm not giving up my hair without a fight.

I sometimes burn incense. Incense and smudge sticks. Now there's a dandy - smudge sticks. It does involve a slight risk, however. (For those unfamiliar with smudge sticks, it's a small bundle of herbs (usually sage, cedar or lavender) you burn in your house. According to Native American tradition, negative energy attaches to the smoke and dissipates with it). I know it sounds freaky - but really it's kinda cool. The risk you ask? Burning sage can kind of smell a little like marijuana. If you don't time it right, your house can smell like the college keg party down the street right when the perfect little soccer mom stops by to drop off a misplaced jersey. Anyhow - the highlight of smudging perhaps is the crazy look people give you when you introduce them to the bizarre, but empowering, tradition. I suppose it doesn't help that I often combine it with a little mantra while I march around the house. I know it's all a little weird but it grows on you, and if you glance casually over your shoulder you might just catch your hoodlums following you through the smoke path, quietly and carefully chanting to themselves. So, I have incense and smudge sticks. And feng shui - the very old Chinese practice of arrangement of space. That kind of geeks ya out too. Red ribbons with coins by the door, a little bell to ring in positive energy, furniture placed in positions of greetings. Kooky? Perhaps. But it all works and helps me feel all that.

Where I shop can help me to feel youthful again. Kowalski's is cool. Trendy, spendy and mod. My favorite local hippie shopping experience is the "Co- Op." Others may refer to it as Valley Natural Food. I prefer the "Co-Op" because it implies that I belong (I do for the record). There's just nothing but cool about the Co-Op. Local peeps sharing their pesticide-free food for those of us willing to pay (and pay we do). While there, you can belly up to the juice bar and, for a couple bucks, throw back a shot of wheat grass with an orange slice chaser. This is perhaps the frosting on the proverbial hippie cake. Wheat grass juice is a thick green liquid vegetable bursting with nutrients that helps purify your blood. After I convinced my bro to indulge, he eloquently professed, "Tastes like I just licked the blade of a lawn mower." Not as bad as it sounds - but I admit a tad out there. The tricky thing about wheat grass, if you're not a regular at it, the first time or two you try it, it can make you a bit nauseous. After slight persuasion, I convinced my (mother of all true hippies) girlfriend to shoot one back with me. Twenty minutes later she was white as a ghost preparing to who-haw out my car window. The price we pay for being cool.

Looking back through the stages of my still semi-young life, I guess it's all progressing the way it's supposed to. Yet, still, some days I simply can't figure out how I transformed into this nothing-cool-bout-it, limping, mother and housewife. Sweet Jesus, how did I get here? But with a little creativity I can still tap into my carefree, barefoot and rebellious younger spirit. So, if by chance you find me in my Doc's, re-arranging furniture, with a strange aroma wafting from my windows and "grass" on my breath, remember: things are not always as they appear. I'm, perhaps, just looking around for someone I use to know.