My mom and I took Holden to a nice new park in Savannah for its grand opening weekend. We were there to meet up with T, a close friend I’ve had since third grade. I never get to see her and she’d never met Holden, so this reunion was long overdue. The reunion came and went too quickly and I had to get my grumpy, overheating 2.5-year-old back to the car.
On the way out, I spotted a guy I went to high school with and his wife, who were watching their children play. I hadn’t seen them in 14 or so years, probably. I waved at them and said hello and things were pleasant for a sec. Then the guy said that he saw T and me walk in and thought to himself, “Things just got a lot meaner!” And then that we must have been the reason the storm clouds suddenly rolled in. His wife was sorta like, “Oh, STOP!” to him and they laughed. I didn’t know what to say so I just kind of walked off, thinking maybe I was having a heatstroke.
I incredulously relayed this story to my mother, who was already waiting for us in the car, and she said, “Well. You were a very angry young lady.” Which was not a comfort in that moment.
First the comeuppance in the park and then my mom hitting me with a truth bomb to blow up my ego? Ooof. But, point taken.
It’s weird; I don’t remember too much about high school. I remember being hormone-addled and angsty, of course, and being so over everything, all the time. I remember feeling such crushing social awkwardness and shyness that I just wanted to disappear. It was easier to channel my discomfort into disdain than it was to channel it into anything else. I remember wanting out of Hardin County because it seemed like a horrible black hole and no place to end up. I remember being annoyed by everything and everyone but I don’t remember being mean. That doesn’t mean I wasn’t mean, though, in ways I maybe didn’t quite understand and don’t remember. And that is the part that worries me. To think that I do things I don’t even know I am doing is scary to me.
I do have a mean streak. I think I can comfortably say that. I try to use it for good and not evil, though. But I’m prone to epic misjudgments at times and I tend to be unserious and irreverent at bad times. So maybe that comes across as mean or at least uncaring.
However, I don’t think I was ever mean to this particular guy. I mean, he was part of a group of people who were very much what would be considered the top social caste of the school. Maybe that was just in my mind but it seemed obvious at the time. And I thought we got along fine! Anyway, hopefully it felt good to get that off his chest if he’s been hanging onto it for 14 years. I’m sure it’s got to be satisfying to see me fat and pale and still as clueless 14 years later, right?
It’s really weird how I am always blindsided to find out that people don’t like me (even though I usually assume people aren’t going to and I often spend a lot of time and energy trying to make them like me). But here’s the thing that is as true then as it is now: No matter how much anyone thinks I suck, I am hardwired to think I suck more than anyone else thinks I suck. So. Y’all can’t win that game.
It’s been weird for me to find out that people I thought I was really close friends with in junior high, high school, or college didn’t feel the same. How could my experience of our friendship have been so radically different than theirs, y’know? Even though I’m your polar opposite in this respect–I care very little about what people think of me (which also comes off as mean, uncaring, and worse)–it still stings a little.