a-choo
I went for coffee with a couple of old friends and their husbands tonight. (Bill was home with the sprogs - next time I'm totally bringing him...)
It was bittersweet. After all these years, I had kind of hoped for the settling in, going over the finer points of the past, catching up on a few tidbits here and there, moving on. Stupid thing is, when I broke away from the 'group' it was under the strangest possible circumstances, at a time when frankly I was doing everything in my power to pretend like my life wasn't the living-walking-breathing-nightmare hell it was. Apparently, I did an OK job of hiding it - there was genuine surprise when I brought up my history with of all things bulimia (something I'm now very open and vocal about) despite the fact I had suffered with it for a good 3 years by the time I met them, and something that I didn't really see to the other side until I got pregnant with Wil. And even since, it's a daily battle, as is the case with 'ics' and 'isms' of that nature. I always figured everyone knew but just didn't have the guts to say anything about it.
There wasn't the soft gentle lull into familiarity, though. It wasn't the least bit strained, don't get me wrong, but it certainly wasn't the romantic reunion I had envisioned. Why, you ask? Because as the conversation wore on, I realized that not only had I hidden things from them, but I hadn't bothered to really know or understand what had been going on in their lives. I was completely ignorant of all the other stuff going on under my nose, while I was so busy pretending I was OK. While the present gap closed, the past gap widened, leaving me with a million unasked questions, things probably too trivial and so ancient that the stories have fled their minds and the facts have gone fuzzy.
We moved around a lot when we were kids. The Orange Princess isn't unique this way - millions of people suffer from the grass is greener syndrome. What would happen is things would get hairy, we'd be stuck in some sort of family rut, and my Mom would just pack us up and move us. Between Kindergarten and grade 11, we had moved 8 times, and with each move, came a new school and a new set of friends. I've often lamented to my husband the admiration and yes, jealousy, I have for him and his friends, the ones he has known since diapers, the ones whose families hung out together for holidays and neighbourhood gatherings, whose homes seemed essentially interchangeable, the ones who discovered chicks and booze and love and heartbreak en masse.
It's not a new thing, this jealousy. It's a remnant of my childhood, yet another one of those, "Oh, OK - NOW it makes sense..." In this case, it was, "Oh, OK - NOW it makes sense why I never bothered to cement or maintain or cling to any friendships. I was always the late entry. I was always the new kid in the school, with none of the history of sleepovers and birthday parties and such, so, after getting acquainted and promptly booted from my token position as proverbial third wheel from one clique or another, I was usually relegated to befriending the kids who were on the fringe already. Until it was time to move...
Let's not forget here, that kids are horrible. Girls are twice as horrible as boys - they're so catty! Elementary was hard enough, but by the time I hit junior high and high school I was terrified of 'making friends.' It was far easier to assume the position of wallflower, being eternally cheerful and quirky, than to try and get to know anyone. Why bother? On the outside I toughed it up, while inside, I took it personally. There was something wrong with me, something unlovable about me, something unworthy about me, and when the friendships shifted, ever so slightly, I ran like hell. I figured I'd save myself the agony and embarrassment and pain of being ousted by just leaving. I was just passing through anyways. And so was the case throughout my school career. Serial Oedipal friendships.
People don't talk about this sort of thing. It's too embarrassing, too painful. Who wants to admit they were an outcast? I don't think I was abnormal for feeling awkward and out of place, nor that friendships were threatened at every corner by the new kid, the old kid, the bad kid; by the influential kid, the boyfriend, the parents... I think there were a lot of kids like me. I think there ARE a lot of kids like me, unsure of themselves and just wanting to be loved and accepted, to feel like we belong.
I have 3 friends who have been with me for what seems like an eternity, though my 'almost half a lifetime' friends seem inconsequential when compared to 'since we were potty trained together' friendships. Nevertheless, I am grateful for them, in ways I can't even begin to express, not the least of which is because they have taught me what it's like to be absent for many months, entrenched in the reality of daily living, and still have a safe place to go without needing to waste time on all the pleasantries.
I still have that faint jealousy, and suppose I always will, as a lasting childhood friendship is something I will never personally know or experience. It's part of the reason I am so adamant that we will stay in this house, in this neighbourhood, in this community, until all the children graduate alongside the kids whose birthday parties and sleepovers they attended, who helped them build sandcastles in the park, and who will maybe one day be part of each others' wedding parties.
As my two old friends sat reminiscing about things they did in elementary school, out of habit my heart wanted to sink. Instead, it sighed, a soft, comfortable sigh of resignation that I may not have a lifetime of memories, but I have memories, wonderful ones, however few they may be, and they are as precious to me as the friends who have been with me for a paltry half a lifetime. Amoungst all the turmoil that was my teenage years, the moments that shine, the ONLY moments that shine, include the ladies I visited with tonight, and that's nothing to sneeze at.
It was bittersweet. After all these years, I had kind of hoped for the settling in, going over the finer points of the past, catching up on a few tidbits here and there, moving on. Stupid thing is, when I broke away from the 'group' it was under the strangest possible circumstances, at a time when frankly I was doing everything in my power to pretend like my life wasn't the living-walking-breathing-nightmare hell it was. Apparently, I did an OK job of hiding it - there was genuine surprise when I brought up my history with of all things bulimia (something I'm now very open and vocal about) despite the fact I had suffered with it for a good 3 years by the time I met them, and something that I didn't really see to the other side until I got pregnant with Wil. And even since, it's a daily battle, as is the case with 'ics' and 'isms' of that nature. I always figured everyone knew but just didn't have the guts to say anything about it.
There wasn't the soft gentle lull into familiarity, though. It wasn't the least bit strained, don't get me wrong, but it certainly wasn't the romantic reunion I had envisioned. Why, you ask? Because as the conversation wore on, I realized that not only had I hidden things from them, but I hadn't bothered to really know or understand what had been going on in their lives. I was completely ignorant of all the other stuff going on under my nose, while I was so busy pretending I was OK. While the present gap closed, the past gap widened, leaving me with a million unasked questions, things probably too trivial and so ancient that the stories have fled their minds and the facts have gone fuzzy.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
We moved around a lot when we were kids. The Orange Princess isn't unique this way - millions of people suffer from the grass is greener syndrome. What would happen is things would get hairy, we'd be stuck in some sort of family rut, and my Mom would just pack us up and move us. Between Kindergarten and grade 11, we had moved 8 times, and with each move, came a new school and a new set of friends. I've often lamented to my husband the admiration and yes, jealousy, I have for him and his friends, the ones he has known since diapers, the ones whose families hung out together for holidays and neighbourhood gatherings, whose homes seemed essentially interchangeable, the ones who discovered chicks and booze and love and heartbreak en masse.
It's not a new thing, this jealousy. It's a remnant of my childhood, yet another one of those, "Oh, OK - NOW it makes sense..." In this case, it was, "Oh, OK - NOW it makes sense why I never bothered to cement or maintain or cling to any friendships. I was always the late entry. I was always the new kid in the school, with none of the history of sleepovers and birthday parties and such, so, after getting acquainted and promptly booted from my token position as proverbial third wheel from one clique or another, I was usually relegated to befriending the kids who were on the fringe already. Until it was time to move...
Let's not forget here, that kids are horrible. Girls are twice as horrible as boys - they're so catty! Elementary was hard enough, but by the time I hit junior high and high school I was terrified of 'making friends.' It was far easier to assume the position of wallflower, being eternally cheerful and quirky, than to try and get to know anyone. Why bother? On the outside I toughed it up, while inside, I took it personally. There was something wrong with me, something unlovable about me, something unworthy about me, and when the friendships shifted, ever so slightly, I ran like hell. I figured I'd save myself the agony and embarrassment and pain of being ousted by just leaving. I was just passing through anyways. And so was the case throughout my school career. Serial Oedipal friendships.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
People don't talk about this sort of thing. It's too embarrassing, too painful. Who wants to admit they were an outcast? I don't think I was abnormal for feeling awkward and out of place, nor that friendships were threatened at every corner by the new kid, the old kid, the bad kid; by the influential kid, the boyfriend, the parents... I think there were a lot of kids like me. I think there ARE a lot of kids like me, unsure of themselves and just wanting to be loved and accepted, to feel like we belong.
I have 3 friends who have been with me for what seems like an eternity, though my 'almost half a lifetime' friends seem inconsequential when compared to 'since we were potty trained together' friendships. Nevertheless, I am grateful for them, in ways I can't even begin to express, not the least of which is because they have taught me what it's like to be absent for many months, entrenched in the reality of daily living, and still have a safe place to go without needing to waste time on all the pleasantries.
I still have that faint jealousy, and suppose I always will, as a lasting childhood friendship is something I will never personally know or experience. It's part of the reason I am so adamant that we will stay in this house, in this neighbourhood, in this community, until all the children graduate alongside the kids whose birthday parties and sleepovers they attended, who helped them build sandcastles in the park, and who will maybe one day be part of each others' wedding parties.
As my two old friends sat reminiscing about things they did in elementary school, out of habit my heart wanted to sink. Instead, it sighed, a soft, comfortable sigh of resignation that I may not have a lifetime of memories, but I have memories, wonderful ones, however few they may be, and they are as precious to me as the friends who have been with me for a paltry half a lifetime. Amoungst all the turmoil that was my teenage years, the moments that shine, the ONLY moments that shine, include the ladies I visited with tonight, and that's nothing to sneeze at.
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