Stuck up

“I guess I figured you were one of those spoiled girls, you know, stuck up.”

The irony of this statement, made by a friend who confessed he was surprised by how I really am now that he knows me better, is how much of my life I’ve spent just wanting to be accepted into the circle. Of course, I’ve been obsessing about his comment, because that phrase–stuck up–strikes a particular nerve in me, the one that flares to remind me I’ll never fit in anywhere.

As a child I was painfully shy, so much so that I could not pick up the phone and order a pizza, or skate up to the counter at Skate City and order a Coke. Just the thought of speaking up in class caused what I know now were mini panic attacks. I had friends, but they were usually the ones who approached me.

I was an awkward kid, kind of funny looking, sometimes mistaken for a boy, quiet, bookish even. I was a smart kid, and eager to please. When kids were mean to me I took it hard, and personally, integrating their teasing and–in the case of my neighborhood nemesis–bullying to mean that I was too weird to fit in. The transition to middle school was particularly hard for me due to the entire neighborhood of kids shunning me by following the bully’s lead. That was the first year I thought of killing myself. I was 11. Sixth grade was hell on earth, comprising some of the most painful social experiences of my life. I still get joy to this day knowing that the “cool girl” who refused my Valentine’s Day card because she “doesn’t take presents from geeks” is a complete loser, as is the bully (who asked to be my friend on Facebook. Really?). Justice!

On the first day of 7th grade, I had to raise my hand and correct my teacher, who’d called me by my unused first name. She stopped in the middle of roll call and did a double take. “My god, you’re beautiful,” she said, and my life changed in an instant. I became one of an elite group of kids who were her favorites. I got a nickname. The cool kids stopped teasing me as much. I found a group of friends. And boys started to notice me. One day a cute, delinquent-type boy (my weakness, apparently) told me I had a nice ass. It was a moment of pure joy. Ugly duckling becomes swan.

Now proclaimed to be pretty and at least more acceptable by the cool teacher, I was still shy. So I went from being the geek to being stuck up. Because when you’re pretty and shy, that’s the label assigned to you.

I’ve lost most of my shyness with people, except when I don’t know anyone, or I’m in a situation that’s cliquey and I want to be part of the group.  Take last Saturday night. I went to two parties: one with a big group of writers and another that was a salsa dancing event. I knew about three people at each party, and because both were noisy, after I’d exhausted conversation with those I knew I stood there, smiling. I was by myself, and my apprehension about not fitting in does on such occasions rear its nasty head.I know that my cover smile–the one that I mean to proclaim “I’m friendly! Approach me!” can come off a bit cold. Maybe I should practice in a mirror to warm it up a little, because Steve has told me that I definitely can look unapproachable. Pretty girl with a cold, uncomfortable smile. I know, poor, poor pretty girl. Sucks to be me. I am convinced, however, that if I weren’t pretty I wouldn’t come off as stuck up. In fact, in a small clinical trial I call those years in the 1990s when I weighed 200+ pounds, more people approached me. Because fat girls with awkward smiles are just awkward, and we are conditioned to pity them.

I admit that in some ways, I am “snobby.” I’ll dance with almost anyone who asks me–once. But if the guy can’t lead or doesn’t keep his feet, I usually won’t dance with him again. I do prefer to be friends with people who either have a similar lifestyle or one I aspire to, which means Steve’s idea of us looking for friends at the Fraternal Order of Eagles or the nearest biker bar doesn’t work for me. I dated a variety of guys, but I wouldn’t marry one who didn’t meet most of my standards. But really, all of this snobbery is not about me feeling like I’m better than these people, but rather me being selective. Judging is what we do as human beings. It’s how we’ve survived for eons. Everyone does it.

So, I’m selective. But I am not stuck up. Damnit.