Fine.
The word “fine” has lived. Perhaps the most user friendly term to ever grace human lips, “fine” enjoys a status few words can even dream of: the multi-purpose go-to. Suitable for anything and everything, there is almost no question that, “Fine,” can’t be the answer to, no mood or feeling that, “Fine,” can’t describe, no situation in which, “Fine,” can’t be uttered to ultimately get you out of said situation.
Fine comes from the French “fin,” meaning end, and it can bring conversation to a halt like no other phrase—like a ridiculous gift from the gods to help save humanity. Uttered an estimated two million* times an hour, in many cases the only response to, “Fine,” is, “Fine.”
But “fine” has also known another rarified existence, that of cultural phenomenon. Cool kid, all the rage, slang before you even knew you were using slang; when people were still trying to figure out how to be hip, "fine" was hip defined. Phrases like, “She’s so fine,” gave birth to a new definition of fine: “fine” as descriptor of something so freaking hot you almost couldn’t stand it. It caught on like wildfire in the eighties and nineties as hot and bothered people of the world stood up and breathlessly said, “Damn, he is fine.” And oh was he.
Fine went where other sad slang wanna-bes of its day like “bomb” never could, it not only functioned as an adjective, it became the feeling itself. When you said someone was, “fine,” you felt it in your stomach, in your knees; every inch of your body felt as though it would explode if you didn’t scream out loud just how fine they were. You passed them in the hallway and your knees began to weaken from the weight of their fineness. You lay in bed, pining endlessly with the full strength of your being about just how fine they were. You set about making yourself look all the more fine in an attempt to get them to take notice. And when the day came that they walked over and said, “Can I sit here?” all you could do was mumble, “Fine.”
Locking yourself in the bathroom following this exchange, you exhaled and thought, holy shit, he's SO fine.
Yes, Fine had hit stratospheric levels of linguistic use. Songs, movies, television and popular jargon were littered with references about how fine someone was. Not even Fine’s closest cousin in slang terms, “fly,” could touch it—which is saying something because Fly was pretty fly. Fine was in our collective memory bank, on the tip of our tongues, embedded in our subconscious. And then something happened. Fine went from being fine to being just… fine.
Somehow the word that had come to define the longing in our very souls began to fade, not unlike the fades many of us were sporting. Phrases like “hot” took over, forever marginalizing our expressions of lust and wanting. By the time the aughts (still sounds so ridiculous) were in high gear, Fine was relegated to being like “interesting”—the phrase I often employ to stay vague—midway between positive and non-committal, not unlike a few fine people I know.
But why the fall from grace? Was Fine just not fine enough? Did Fine get replaced with a newer, sexier model like so many of its eighties and nineties counterparts? Did throngs of people move on from it like they did Madonna (I’ll always love you, Madge), acid-washed jeans, perms and Tab? Only to be replaced by Lady Gaga, skinny jeans, blowouts and—wait for it—water.
Was it because Fine was too damn fine for its own good? Was Fine the victim of pent up jealousy like so many beautiful things, until the other words finally snapped and hatched a plan, collectively ensuring the downfall of our fair Fine? Was Fine so fine that its ego became inflated and it lost touch with the little people, exhibiting diva behavior, saying it wouldn’t get out of bed for less than ten thousand dollars a day, throwing cold-pressed green juice at its assistant and insisting it was the definitive phrase of our time?
Is Fine who Jay-Z was referring to when he said, “Merci, you fine as f*** but you givin’ me hell?”
Yes, like so many stars before it, it seems Fine was a victim of its celebrity. Obsessive paparazzi, late nights in the club, too many substances, too many lovers; a jet-set life of excess that came crashing down. The True Hollywood Story would reference mismanaged money, inner circle distrust and sources quoted saying Fine was often seen walking around in a disoriented haze, muttering, “I’m fine.”
By the time Fine cleaned up, its relevance to the new century’s collective cultural unconscious had been replaced by phrases like “hot,” and the way was paved for future ridiculous social media darlings like “on fleek” to eventually take over our brains. After almost two decades, Fine’s time atop the slang heap was officially over.
“Fine,” said Fine. One must always know when to throw in the towel.
And so began the long journey back for Fine. Humbled and grateful for a second chance at the user-friendly life it once lived, Fine slowly began to pick up the pieces. Thanks to fellow eighties and nineties icon Richard Gere, Fine found solace in the teachings of Buddha and daily meditation. Eventually finding itself at peace with money in the bank and its status as a “multi-purpose go-to” still intact, Fine knew there was nothing more a word could ask for. Things were once again just fine.
Fine is now mentoring Fly, Bomb and other linguistic casualties of the mid-nineties. Speaking from its home in Malibu, Fine said it’s stronger than it has ever been and happier than it could have dreamed, thankful every day for the opportunities ahead and the lessons that it continues to learn. He and Gere recently traveled to Nepal for a forthcoming documentary entitled, Think Fine, Be Fine: The Path to Contentment.
But I miss the glory days of fine. The days when fine really meant something. When fine was more than just hot, more than just attractive, when it was sexy as hell in the best and worst possible way. Fine was something to attain, something to aspire to; fine was the very depth of desire—often unrequited. And wasn’t that yearning what made someone all the more fine?
Though society has put Fine back into its box, shelved alongside “yes,” “no,” “okay,” “alright” and long-suffering “sure,” I long for Fine’s days as a slang celeb and try my best to keep them alive in my ridiculous heart. Every time I hear someone utter, “I’m fine,” in response to a bland inquiry, I smile to myself. For I know Fine will someday be back atop the pile of cultural influence, its status as a once and future icon cemented forever.
So let us raise an eyebrow and casually reply, “I’m fine,” knowing that we are also fine. And that’s damn fine.
*Ridiculous in the City’s estimates are based on a mixture of hard facts and educated guesses. Much like life.