Archive for Friendship
Stuck up
Posted by: | Comments“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.
Accepting disappointment
Posted by: | CommentsI received a group email on Facebook yesterday from my salsa partner, announcing that he’s quitting our group. He stated good reasons for quitting, reasons that beg empathy, which I extend to him. The end result for the moment at least is that I have no partner for our group performance on January 20. Our coach has already asked two people if they can step in–two people I’d be happy to dance with.
I thought my partner was my friend, and that in this circumstance he’d call or email me privately first. He didn’t, for whatever reasons he had. I expect that when I see my partner again, and I will see him again, I’ll pretend that he doesn’t exist. Or, I’ll smile and say hello and shift my gaze around the room as if I don’t know him. Because I am childish like that. He might apologize to me directly (although after the sharp email I shot off to him yesterday, I’m not expecting it), and if so, I’ll kindly accept it. But I won’t trust him again. I’m still angry, and highly disappointed, both in the breach of trust I feel and in the unexpected change.
I do not like change that I don’t initiate. It leaves me feeling panicked, twisty, dizzy and disoriented. I deal well in a world where I know what I can expect. My reaction to unexpected change usually follows this path: fury, disappointment, grief, whining, panicking, whining some more, taking it personally, whining again, calming down and then–and this is the kicker–distancing. Occasionally I reach acceptance, but distancing always peppers that stew.
I felt the same kind of disappointment two weeks ago when my mother announced that we would be, for the first time in family history, celebrating Christmas on Christmas Eve. During childhood, we’d often have friends over on Christmas Eve for chocolate fondue, caroling and drinking, but we’ve never opened gifts and had our big meal on that day. As a result, my arrangements with Lauren’s dad center on having Lauren with me for part of Christmas Day every year so that we can be with my family all together. This year, our kids won’t be with us until about noon on Christmas Day, spending the Eve with their other parents. When I told my mother, upon her pronouncement of this year’s festivities, that I felt very disappointed (to put it lightly) about her unilateral change, she replied, “Well, I don’t feel disappointed.”
I’m used to having all of my family together for Christmas. It wasn’t the date change that felt disappointing, but rather that my kids wouldn’t be there. Turns out that my sister and her family will be at her in-laws on Christmas Day, so if we have the gathering that day, they’ll be missing, which is not only disappointing but apparently was my mother’s (unstated) real reason for wanting to do a Christmas Eve gig. In the end, we decided to have our family celebration the week before Christmas, on my mom’s birthday, so we can all be together, and to go hang out and open stockings on the day itself. That’s better. I still feel disappointed in my mother’s lack of disappointment. It feels like a shun, like I’m not important.
I know it’s not about me. Change I don’t initiate rarely is but somehow, that kind of change feels most personal.
No one likes feeling disappointed. I’ve just noticed that I seem to take it harder than most. What is it that I can’t accept?
Flannel is the new thong
Posted by: | CommentsMy mother is fucking hilarious. Amid today’s “Bedroom Burlesque” bridal shower, with gifts of skimpy bras, silky nighties and even a sexy apron (move over Betty Crocker!) , was a green bag from my mother. Inside: This.
Apparently, flannel is the new thong in sexy bedroom wear. As you can see from the shine around my eyes, I am laughing to the point of tears. Because a) my mother has included a poem in her card about how nothing in Victoria Secret plucked ol’ Mom’s heartstrings, and in the winter cold I should turn to flannel and b) I know that when I show Steve, he will want to fight me for these.
Yes, my mom gave me flannel red plaid footie PJs complete with Velcro’ed drop panel at my sexy lingerie party. (And later when I modeled them for Steve as I sprawled seductively across the unmade bed, he said, “I’m not going to fuck you in those, but I might fight you for them.” I know him so well.)
Laurel & me
Today was so unlike my first bridal shower, 14 years ago. My ex and I were students, and we needed stuff. Like measuring cups and rolling pins and shower curtains and towels. My maid of honor, Linda, threw a kitchen shower for us, and we received everything we needed and then some. At that shower, we played Make the TP Wedding Dress, which was funny because Linda and my grandma won with a Boho-inspired Indian Princess dress. We had a cake, and punch and mints and nuts. It was all very proper. The Perfect Bridal Shower for a New Couple Just Starting Out, the headline would have read, with a captioned photo of me in my blue and white polka dot dress holding up a set of rubber spatulas.
Lauren, my daughter, is my official maid of honor, and any shower she would have planned would have included Littlest Pet Shops and lip-synching to Allie & AJ songs. (Really, you can’t count on 8-year-old party planners these days)
So Laurel, my best friend, offered to throw me a shower. It was unexpected and wonderful. I had figured no bridal shower this time. Laurel went all out: Brunch at Bistro Vendome, a French restaurant in Denver’s Larimer Square, champagne cocktails, a beautifully decorated table with shimmery turquoise paper and vases of peacock feathers. The food was delicious: from the goose liver pate and olives and cheeses and croissants with rose jelly (tastes like bath beads, only sweet) to a fruit and cream cheese crepe, to a choice of waffles with nutella, pears and walnuts, salmon benedict or a chicken salad sandwich, to French press coffee with creme brulee or fruit crumble and vanilla ice cream.
We played two games for silly little prizes (false eyelashes, a quacking duck keychain light, a car freshener), both of which kept the eight of us laughing. I had invited about 20 people, but lives are busy and the group who sat around the table was perfect: intimate enough for real conversation and big enough for fun (and to stroke my ego that a few people in the world actually like me–ha).
Then came the gifts, and the flannel PJs. And the tears of laughter. And the posed photos of me with said gifts. Three and a half hours after we started, I took everyone’s photo wearing our party-favor peacock feather earrings (our wedding theme) then had a waiter take our group photo.I think everyone had a really fun time. I know I did.
In the past, I would have fretted over the people invited but who did not come for various reasons, those who did not bother to RSVP (rude, but oh well, their loss) and those who canceled at the last minute. I would have worried that those people really didn’t like me, and taken their choice not to join us personally. My lament would have tempered my fun. That’s the difference between 25 and 40, or between fake confidence and really knowing who I am, and what’s real, and what’s important.
Like flannel footie PJs from my mother, and the only poem she’s ever written in her life–written to me, to make me laugh. To make me happy.
Please enable Javascript and Flash to view this Flash video.Spa Bliss with Laurel
Posted by: | CommentsI am not 40. No, really. My driver’s license may proclaim today to be my 40th birthday, but my skin and toes say otherwise. Because today, Laurel and I celebrated the beginning of the second half of our lives at Copperfalls Aveda Spa in Castle Rock. And not only am I big bowl of mush, I am absolutely glowing.
I’m a regular massage-getter and card-carrying member of Massage Envy. Lately, I’ve been getting a lot of deep tissue work, which feels more like punishment than pleasure most days. Today, I got a lovely aromatherapy Swedish massage from Tony, complete with candlelight and eucalyptus oil to calm down my “fire” disposition. Ooh, and after he rubbed my feet for about 10 minutes, he wrapped them in warm, moist towels. Oh. My. God.
Lunch followed, during which I wolfed down a tiny quiche and salad, then half of Laurel’s oversized spinach salad. Yum. I was too blissed out to understand that during my facial–cool mud-like stuff painted on my face, neck and upper chest, then wiped with warm towels–we were under yet another tornado alert. I snoozed to the sound of pouring rain upon the roof while my aesthetician gave me an endless arm massage with hot stones, then rubbed my scalp with scented oil.
I drank copious amounts of Aveda tea–which starts off stark on the tongue and morphs into a silky sweetness that the proprietor said was sweet fennel. Finally, Laurel and I sat in a sunny room together and got pedicures. My toes are now a lovely irridescent turquoise color. I caught up on the latest gossip about Jon & Kate, and Halle Berry’s new short hair, and Jennifer Hudson’s alleged pregnancy. Good times.
Because the spa is under construction–an understatement, as my massage room was constructed of plastic and fabric walls with velcro closures–we got a discount. We also walked away with the holy grail of spa experiences: Samples!!
Afterward, all gooey and blissed out with Kleenex stuck between our toes to keep the polish safe, we stopped for coffee and pastry at the shop that supplied our lunches, then drove (with the top down on her Miata) to our favorite metaphysical bookstore. There, we both indulged in a clairvoyant reading with a woman whose energy was so strong it literally felt like she was plugging into me. We talked about the theme for the next year of my life (letting go of the warrior energy that has served me so well and entering a time of receiving).
Laurel drove me home, and we talked about our readings over the wind that swirled our hair. We took a self-portrait sitting on the hood of her car. We exchanged gifts–I got her a turtle necklace (her animal totem) from Santa Fe, and she gave me an adorable turquoise purse and a bunch of little things inside–and said goodbye. She’s one of the few people I can hang out with for 8 hours and be ready for more. We know each other so well, we’re almost two halves of the same sea shell. It’s difficult to make friends as a grown-up, and I am so blessed to have her … and what I hope will be a longstanding birthday tradition.
Now, I’m going to cook Steve and I a steak, open a bottle of wine, and cuddle with my honey. It’s been a blissful day. Just what I needed to kick off the 4th decade.
In the company of women
Posted by: | CommentsI have never had an easy time with women, even though I am one. Various experiences as a girl growing up taught me not to trust other girls. I’ve usually had one or two close friends at a time and a loose association with a dozen or so others, but it’s usually a careful friendship on my part. I’ve usually not fully disclosed myself to my girlfriends because I have been so incredibly hurt in the past by girls … even more so than in the perpetual heartbreak of adolescent dating.
During the past five years, I’ve had a different experience than before. Perhaps the difference is my own self confidence, the lessening of my ardent need to be accepted by others unconditionally (my greatest desire) and my ability, finally, to make room for myself in my own life.
I met my best friend Laurel at the Inner Child Journey workshop at Mile High Church almost five years ago to the day. My ex-husband had suddenly left me, and I turned to this lovely, loving metaphysical church to keep me upright in a storm that blinded me. I signed up for the three-day course in the hopes of better understanding my own wounds. I discovered many things about myself: that it wasn’t that I didn’t believe in god, but that I never felt like god believed in me or that I was worthy of god’s love and interest; that all of my life, I had looked for a soft place to fall, where I didn’t have to be strong and perfect and accomplished, but had never found it. It was a very vulnerable time for me, and this workshop made me even more open and vulnerable. Our small breakout group bonded tightly, and that’s where I met Laurel. We have so much in common, from our birthdays being two days apart, to being adopted, to certain past experiences, to thinking and reacting so similarly that our favorite catch phrase is, sarcastically, “Not that I know anything about that.”
Laurel has been a huge blessing in my life. She is the first girl I have ever trusted so much that I have no secrets from. She is my go-to on bad days and great days and all of the days in between. She has helped me through so much during the past five years, the divorce not the least of the adventures. We’ve had a lot of fun, too. I can be frank with her, and she can be frank with me. I can’t imagine my life without her … even though we don’t see each other hardly enough, despite living less than three miles apart. (Life, you know.) We end almost every phone call with an I love you, words I’d never uttered with friends before I met her. We’re part of each other.
During the past three years, I’ve met a few other women whose company I enjoy. Last night, I went to my friend Nicoleta’s house for a small gathering of girls with wine and food, but mostly wine. I know Nicoleta mildly well, and Emily perhaps a little better, and Donna even less, although I’ve known her for more than three years. Usually we see each other at loud parties. The last two women I’d met only in passing. I still feel hesitant among these women. The connection is there, and I’d like to be closer to them, but maybe I haven’t learned as much as I thought I had. Steve has accused me of being the master of getting just so close to people, but holding them at a healthy distance to keep myself safe (him, too, sometimes). I would really like to trust myself enough to trust them, to really be friends. These are women who I know I could love like I love Laurel, if I let myself. Partly, because of how we know each other, I’m still deeply worried about being judged not good enough, or too self-preoccupied. I know this is silliness, part of my old (and perhaps current) sense of insecurity. I want to be accepted by these women, but maybe I just need to let go of the fear and I’ll feel the acceptance they already have for me.
I also have a few online friends–Jac, Jenifer, Meara–who I have deep affection for even though I’ve never met them. And I have friends from long ago, namely Kristin and Vivian, who I love dearly but they’re far away. Being friends with them here on Facebook has helped reconnect us somewhat, as has actually seeing them in their grownup form. Vivian was my best friend during childhood, and Kristin was my best friend during high school and college. I’ve also always made work friends, and I’ve kept in touch with many, like Stacy, Wendy and Kim, after moving on. While it’s difficult to keep up with the daily antics of all of them when their office is no longer next to mine, I love reading about them in their Facebook updates, looking at their pictures. One current colleague, Catherine, recently told me she feels close to me, even though we’ve hardly spoken because of my Facebook postings. She and I have a lot in common. My colleague Jill and I have turned our shared love of salsa dancing into what I consider to be a genuine friendship as well. I’ve always needed that social outlet at work, especially because I’m not a person who leaves her emotions at the door, and some days, you just need someone to talk to.
I am greedy for friendship. I crave being understood and accepted by women. I desire a strong connection to women. I’ve spent the first half of my life feeling on the outside looking in when it comes to friendships. I’m looking forward to the coming years spent in the company of women, learning to trust and love them, and learning to let go of my defenses to be truly reciprocal in their friendship.
