I do not fit in.
At 43, I still feel -- scarily often -- that I am gazing inside at the party from the outside stoop...and wondering if I have time to leave before anyone sees me.
In my teens, this was a disaster. While I didn't "have" to have a boyfriend, I felt more lovable when I did. I rode the waves of daily change -- who was mad at who, dating who, not speaking to who, broken up with who -- within my group of friends to remain secure on shaky, teenage-angst-riddled ground. I cut my long hair to look like Princess Diana (admit it -- your eyes rolled on that pronouncement) because it was "in". I kissed boys I didn't even like during "Spin The Bottle" to not be different.
Better to fit in than admit discomfort.
In my twenties, I was busy building a life. A country girl on the city campus. The thought of living with a stranger in a teeny dorm room was appalling, so I worked full-time and attended night classes instead. I preferred discussing books to partying and lunching with older co-workers to my peers. I married someone not from my hometown. I relocated to a new city for a new job and started all over with new people. I put off having children -- for fifteen years -- when everyone else didn't.
Different, different, different.
In my thirties, I was settled into my life, my job, my friends...many of whom I assumed would be sitting around a table with me when we were old and gray, laughing about our youthful antics and commiserating about our husbands of a hundred years.
Not one, but two of those friends sharply pulled away -- a small offense in their mind turning into something so monumental that no amount of sincere, apologetic words on my part could whittle away.
Then I suffered a traumatic miscarriage after an unexpected pregnancy. The silence was deafening. Nearly all of the friendships I perceived as forged on solid ground came undone in a heap of no calls, no cards -- no discussion.
In seeking depth and substance, I was once again different.
And alone.
I guess I can't blame anyone else for my odd-duck ways. I'm still dealing with temper tantrums and diapers when many my age are sending kids to college. I'd rather read a good book than watch much on TV. I prefer thrift stores and yards sales to Macy's or Nordstrom's -- even (gasp!) Kohl's. I devour gardening books and secretly plot to encourage my neighbors to grow less grass. In a suburb. I enjoy talking to complete strangers in bathrooms over attending a party. I eschew sleeping in for quiet, childless mornings to stare at this stupid computer screen and wonder how I can transfer the jumble of thoughts in my head to something ...some coherent or even witty intellectualism....that will make someone else sit up and think, "Eureka! That's me! I'm not...alone."
As different as I am -- and I've been told by a friend of nearly 40 years that I do march to the beat of a different drum -- I suspect I am not alone.
The good news for my younger friends is, that as you enter your fourth decade, you care less what others think. Who you are is more important than what someone else wants you to be. Your quirks are yours. You can bravely admit to and own them.
Or to hold them, along with your cautious heart, as you stand on that stoop looking in; before taking a deep breath, opening the door, and once again sharing the quirky, different, real -- you.
At 43, I still feel -- scarily often -- that I am gazing inside at the party from the outside stoop...and wondering if I have time to leave before anyone sees me.
In my teens, this was a disaster. While I didn't "have" to have a boyfriend, I felt more lovable when I did. I rode the waves of daily change -- who was mad at who, dating who, not speaking to who, broken up with who -- within my group of friends to remain secure on shaky, teenage-angst-riddled ground. I cut my long hair to look like Princess Diana (admit it -- your eyes rolled on that pronouncement) because it was "in". I kissed boys I didn't even like during "Spin The Bottle" to not be different.
Better to fit in than admit discomfort.
In my twenties, I was busy building a life. A country girl on the city campus. The thought of living with a stranger in a teeny dorm room was appalling, so I worked full-time and attended night classes instead. I preferred discussing books to partying and lunching with older co-workers to my peers. I married someone not from my hometown. I relocated to a new city for a new job and started all over with new people. I put off having children -- for fifteen years -- when everyone else didn't.
Different, different, different.
In my thirties, I was settled into my life, my job, my friends...many of whom I assumed would be sitting around a table with me when we were old and gray, laughing about our youthful antics and commiserating about our husbands of a hundred years.
Not one, but two of those friends sharply pulled away -- a small offense in their mind turning into something so monumental that no amount of sincere, apologetic words on my part could whittle away.
Then I suffered a traumatic miscarriage after an unexpected pregnancy. The silence was deafening. Nearly all of the friendships I perceived as forged on solid ground came undone in a heap of no calls, no cards -- no discussion.
In seeking depth and substance, I was once again different.
And alone.
I guess I can't blame anyone else for my odd-duck ways. I'm still dealing with temper tantrums and diapers when many my age are sending kids to college. I'd rather read a good book than watch much on TV. I prefer thrift stores and yards sales to Macy's or Nordstrom's -- even (gasp!) Kohl's. I devour gardening books and secretly plot to encourage my neighbors to grow less grass. In a suburb. I enjoy talking to complete strangers in bathrooms over attending a party. I eschew sleeping in for quiet, childless mornings to stare at this stupid computer screen and wonder how I can transfer the jumble of thoughts in my head to something ...some coherent or even witty intellectualism....that will make someone else sit up and think, "Eureka! That's me! I'm not...alone."
As different as I am -- and I've been told by a friend of nearly 40 years that I do march to the beat of a different drum -- I suspect I am not alone.
The good news for my younger friends is, that as you enter your fourth decade, you care less what others think. Who you are is more important than what someone else wants you to be. Your quirks are yours. You can bravely admit to and own them.
Or to hold them, along with your cautious heart, as you stand on that stoop looking in; before taking a deep breath, opening the door, and once again sharing the quirky, different, real -- you.
No comments:
Post a Comment