When I Grow Up. . .

When I grow up, I'm going to stop caring what people think about me.

It would be one thing, I suppose, if I worked really hard to fit in and make people like me. But I did that in high school and I'm kind of over it now. It would be one thing if I didn't already have friends. It would be one thing if I was running for office.

But I'm not running for office. Hell, I couldn't even handle being a class mom. And let's face it, if I was trying to make people like me my blog probably wouldn't be a constant bitchfest about stupid people and/or why my children are more awesome and more challenging than average. I would probably repost those status updates on Facebook that describe how awesome my mother and my husband are.

If I wanted more people around here to like me, I would probably spend a lot more money on clothes. I would also probably remember more people's names. Oh, and I might stop talking so much (look, I don't get out a lot. I get a little excited.) Maybe I'd even be more patient when the woman ahead of me at the grocery store has to run back through the aisles FOUR times to get stuff she forgot and then pays with PENNIES (although you'd think refraining from punching her would make me likable enough).

But I'm not in high school anymore (Even though I have theory that life is really just a big version of high school, the lack of blue eyeshadow and the presence of wrinkles should be enough to remind me that actual high school, is, in fact, over). I would rather spend money on my family. And clearly I'm not going to grow out of this bitch phase. The patience for others is not going to magically appear.

So why does it bother me so much when people don't like me? Especially if, as is generally the case, I don't like them either. Is it just because my WASP background makes me believe that dislike should be buried so far under politeness that you can never even be sure if it's really there? Like these people are disrespecting me by being so obvious about it?

Or is it because at heart I"m still a 13 year old girl (and the fact that I actually get more zits now is just a little young-at-heart bonus)?

I Can't Befriend Perfect Pollies

When I was in high school, I had a lot of friends. I was in a lot of activities and had a fair amount of fun. Of course, I still felt terribly insecure. Who doesn't, in high school? But because I had a lot of close friends, I knew that breathtakingly beautiful girls still felt insecure, that brilliant girls had moments of doubt, that the talented and funny girls still spent time crying in their rooms. I never had any illusions that anyone was without faults or angst or embarrassment.

Until I had eleventh grade English with. . .hmmm, let's call her Polly. She was attractive and smart and very popular, all of which didn't bother me. What bothered me was that she never had a bad hair day, or said something stupid in class, or even dropped her pen. When we had to write an essay about our two most important possessions, one of Polly 's was her iron. I mean, I still don't iron and this 16 year old girl ironed her whole family's clothes (in addition to sports teams, good grades, lots of friends, etc.). Polly never got stains on her clothes, never seemed to sweat or get flustered or feel sad. . .she just glided down the hall, kind to everyone, living in her bubble of perfection.

Of course, I've met women like her since high school - Erika in college, Jen at my first teaching job. But no one really matched up to the Real Polly until I moved back to Bergen County and tried to meet other mothers. Every time I see a mother in the park, I swear she's been taking lessons from Polly.

These other mothers never have their children's handprints on their shirts. They have lost of their baby weight and wear a size I couldn't even wear before I had baby weight. Their clothes are fashionable - and ironed. Their hair is styled (or at least not in my usual ratty ponytail). Their children never fluster or frustrate them. They seem serene and organized as their children willingly eat organic tofu cookies. Standing near them, I feel the exact same way as I did sitting next to Polly in English class.

I remind myself that I am an adult now. I tell myself that it's pretty pathetic for a 16 year old girl to count an IRON as one of her prized possessions. I explain to Hot Guy that the women at the park probably don't talk about the things I like to talk about anyway (books, politics, sex lives of acquaintances). I tell myself that no one is perfect and no one's life is perfect - no matter what it looks like to an outsider. I lecture myself about being a kinder, less judgmental person. But I still don't want to befriend anyone of these Pollies.

However, as soon as one of them shows up with stains on her shirt, messy hair or pretzels for snack, I'll be all over her. I promise.