Friday, November 18, 2011

The "in" crowd

I've said it once, and I'll say it again--no one ever leaves high school.  Unfortunately, no matter how successful or powerful or happy we become; there is still a small part of us that remembers we weren't invited to so and so's party or that we were always picked last for dodge ball.  Or, I guess, that's what I remember of high school, it's possible what you remember is how popular and good-looking you were.   This also can have consequences.  It's the reason why women in their forties feel empowered to dance on tables at bars--they remember how hot they were in high school.  Unfortunately, while it was cute to be an attention whore (or at least tolerated because you were pretty enough) in high school, after a certain age it just gets to be sad (I'm looking at you Kris Jenner).

Today at work, I overheard some co-workers talking about an anti-bullying program we run.   One of my co-workers said, "I hate to mention stuff like this to kids so young, but I always bring up the little boy in fourth grade who killed himself because he was bullied.  I want them to know their actions have consequences."  High school is now starting in middle school and even elementary school.   I also know this because I was teaching a class for 10-12 year old girls, and one of them called her boyfriend "dark chocolate and beef tenderloin."  Go to your room, young lady.  

I still feel like I'm in high school a lot of the time, even though I defiantly declare I am a "grown-ass woman," (because nothing says emotional maturity like stomping your foot and swearing).  I recently have been following the site, "Pintrest," and it basically has the same affect upon me as watching what the popular girls wore in high school.  I see all these trendy pictures of girls in outfits and I covet what they have, and I also delude myself into thinking that a slouchy sweater and leather leggings would be a "good look" for me.   I think insane things like, "maybe I should die my hair red, it looks good on her" and I bemoan the fact that I do not know how to french braid my hair or wear leather to work.    Did I mention I wore sparkly blue eye shadow in middle school? Obviously, I am not immune to peer pressure.

Another, terrible, terrible, thing I do now that reminds me of high school?   I have fixated upon another girl and I am on a desperate quest to prove to myself (and anyone who will listen) how much better I am than her.  I look at her facebook posts and feel compelled to mock them.  Why don't I just delete her from my life and be done with it?  Because that would be a sign of adequate mental health.   I also fixated upon a girl on my cheerleading squad in high school.  Everyone said she was so "nice," but I knew she was actually a venom spewing bitch, and I spent a lot of my time obsessing about how I would expose her true nature.   This didn't work out and she was on prom court, but I heard from a little birdy that she banged an entire fraternity in college, so you know, I'll chalk it up to a win.

Also, I get weird because my coworkers are all "crafty" and "domestic" and they bring in cupcakes shaped like Mt. Rushmore and make canopy beds out of twine and craft glue.   I sometimes forget to buy more toilet paper and use tissues for a few days.  I am not on top of my life.  But the crafty girls are now the popular girls.  And when I move into the next stage of my life, I know there are going to be those "popular" mothers who breastfeed for exactly six months and whose children will know Mandarin Chinese.  I suspect my child will not latch on to my breast and this will make me feel like a bad mother and I will be in playgroup and the other mothers will say, "Annie, really you must breastfeed.  It really even improves your child's IQ" and I will say, "If sucking my tit makes you smart how do you explain my ex boyfriends?"  And there will be shocked silence.   And I will be ostracized.  Some things will never change--I'm just not built for the popular group.  Wasn't in high school--won't be now, in five, ten, or twenty years.

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