After the party, we struck out into the snow, whereupon I became frigidly aware of my nonfunctioning zipper. A headline flashed before my eyes: FROZEN BUT NOT ''COOL'': DECK, AMBISEXUAL REDNECK FOUND CRYSTALLIZED ON MANHATTAN SIDEWALK. My stomach growled as we passed a diner, but Rob explained that a member of our party had had appetizers there earlier in the evening, and restaurant recidivism was a no-no: ''The waitress might give us the frigidaire.''
It occurred to me that to be hip is to be frostbitten, hungry, and blind -- any more hipness, and I'd be living in a Dumpster behind Denny's. Nevertheless, I'd gained something from the experience -- at least, until Rob said, ''You know, I saw a lot of people at the party wearing conservative sweaters and that sort of thing. So is this really a makeover, or were you hip to begin with?''
This, dear Mother, is a riddle wrapped in an enigma, drenched in vodka. We live in a world too hip for certainties, save one: If you'd send me another yellow sweater and, oh, $500, that would be unspeakably deck of you.
