Sometimes I can be a real killjoy. I notice it especially with the kids. Children can get so enthusiastic about things, literally buzzing in their little socks with excitement, often over the pretty mundane. Ebullient over the ordinary, what a wonderful way to be.

Yet too often I find myself meeting their high energy with a sigh, a skeptical look, a dismissive, knowing nod like ‘I’ve done it, been there, seen it all before’. Usually paired with some mirthless comment to sober them up. I mean, let’s not get too carried away here – leave it to me to inject a dose of ‘reality’… because that’s important to a seven-year-old?!

What a meanie! I’m like the fun police. But it seems the more animated they are, the more I’ll counter it with an opposing force of indifference. As if there is some imaginary balance of ‘just the right and acceptable amount’ of zeal we should be engaging in.

And it works the other way too. I was having a gripe to a friend the other day, moaning about something or other. I clearly hit a nerve as they proceeded to go off on a tirade on the topic, deploring the state of things, enraged at the sense of injustice. I was taken aback by their intensity. I may have been ticked off before, but this seemed ‘too much’. All of a sudden I find myself saying, “it’s not so bad,” in its defense. I felt the need to turn down the heat.

It’s like I have a thermostat that kicks in, either way, to keep the ambient tension level at a kind of neutral. But what exactly is it regulating? Could it be monitoring passion?

Passion: emotional intensity, the life force that leads us to dynamic action. It is one of the very things I seek to help people reconnect with during coaching, because of the drive and momentum it can create for making positive change. And then I witness myself suppressing it in my own life. And worse yet, in my kids?! Why am I not fanning the flames of their eagerness? Why am I not expressing my own opinions with fervid conviction and fire? Might it be that I am a little bit afraid, or at least uncomfortable, in the presence of my own passion? Whatever could create a reaction like that?

Quite likely some lessons learned back when I was vibrating with joy in my own little cotton socks. It’s not called ‘passion’ at that age, more likely things like, over-the-top, nerdiness, dorky, different, weird.

Eager is not cool – was the message I got, from the playing field, in the movies I watched: Sandy from Grease… what a square! In fact the two appeared inversely proportional. The less you try (or look like you are trying) the cooler you are. It ran the gamut from schoolwork (‘too cool for school’), to how you dressed (trends like ‘bed head’, ripped jeans, etc). It was true for dating (the ‘two-day don’t call rule’ and ‘treat ‘em mean to keep them keen’ approach), and general attitude towards everything (‘do I look bothered?’, ‘…Whatever!’).

Some people seemed to do this so naturally: the cool kids. I so wanted to be one of the cool kids. The problem is that ‘looking like I don’t care’ can take a monumental effort. I think my natural tendency is to care about stuff very deeply: to wear my heart on my sleeve, to get so excited and enthusiastic about things I’m ready to burst.

And so now that I’m an adult, why don’t I?

It’s like I’m still trying to impress some unseen audience of cool kids, so they’ll let me be in their gang. Have I never moved on from being 13? I remain self-conscious about my own levels of commitment and excitement for things, and feel the need to rein them in and self regulate. I still am afraid to seem too keen.

Cynicism is the grown-up cool. Switch on the TV: being ‘down on something’ is a major theme. Trendy shows are full of worldly-wise characters who mock and scoff earnestness and eager-beavers. We laugh at the seeming naivety of optimism and devotion, and can tear apart those who try too hard.

Not much has changed since the schoolyard then. What boggles me is that I still seek to buy into that. If that’s cool, why do I want to be it? As best-seller, Robin Sharma says, “what cynic has ever done something truly great?” And how much fun are they even having, sitting up there on their high horse of judgment?

When I allow myself to, I find there’s little more enjoyable than totally throwing myself into something I’m doing, regardless of what I look like doing it. It’s the whole ‘dance like no one’s watching’ attitude (which I still need to work on, as I found, timidly throwing some shapes, complete with self-conscious overbite, on the dance-floor this weekend).

What’s most ironic is that the people I truly admire and want to emulate – are the ‘geeks’. Those who are fully embracing their passion and living it; the kind of people whose only attitude of ‘not caring’, is in regards to any cynicism from others. It’s their club I want to be in.

If I want to be cool, I’m going to have to adjust my definition of the word. Whose judgment am I afraid of? The glamorous cynics? In the end, not my kind of crowd. Trying hard to look like I’m hardly trying is an exhausting exercise. There’s too much I want to experience and see and enjoy, to pretend I don’t care. I do. I love to care.

It’s time to shake off those self-imposed constraints, raise my default level of intensity, up my thermostat for passion. I’ll have to re-learn how to make the effort to buzz in my socks. And it takes effort. Being cynical is actually the easy option (and ultimately the boring one).

It’s way harder (and so much cooler) to really be ourselves. It takes courage and presence to jump up and down with the kids just because it’s Tuesday, to laugh at ridiculous jokes that would normally only garner a smile, not roll my eyes at overly chipper folks with their effusive energy, allow it instead to be contagious. Maybe even become one of them. May we strive to let out our inner excitement and enjoy it. And for anyone who’s got a problem with that, ‘…whatever!’

Julia Pitt is a trained Success Coach and certified NLP practitioner on the team at Benedict Associates. For further information contact Julia on (441)705-7488, www.juliapittcoaching.com.