This Secret Will Self Destruct in 10 Seconds

Secret-keeping, or the inability thereof, is common fodder for sitcom scenarios. One character has something they’re dying to tell, but their best friend/sister/crotchety grandmother is notorious for being unable to keep it to themselves. As the scene unfolds, character #1 invariably tells the juicy tidbit to character #2 and hijinks ensue. 

On an episode of Modern Family, Mitchell found out that his friend Brett had gotten calf implants but didn’t want anyone to know so he could make them believe he’d been working out. “Don’t tell anyone, especially Cam!” Brett admonished Mitchell. Cam is Mitchell’s partner, notorious for blabbing any secret. ("OK, well I didn't know that was my reputation. Maybe that's a secret people have been keeping from me.")  

After much prodding by Cam, Mitchell gives in and spills the beans about Brett’s legs. Cam immediately mass-texts all of their friends…giggle giggle, hijinks, apologies, end scene.

Similarly, every season of every incarnation of the Real Housewives franchise has seen at least one betrayal *dun dun DUN!* because someone violated a confidence. Watching the most recent reunion show, one woman tried to deflect blame off herself by inferring she didn’t have a choice in the matter. “YOU put me in a bad position by making me aware of this information” she told her cast-mate. In essence, she thought she couldn’t be blamed for perpetuating gossip simply because she was given the knowledge of it. Personal accountability be damned. Self control? Never heard of it.

Now, I understand that sometimes you hear things that make you go not only "Hmmm…" but flat out "Whoa!" It’s thrilling to hear something we perceive to be breaking news. We can feel a sense of power telling others what we know about someone else. 

Somewhere around my college years I realized that keeping secrets actually displays MORE power. I guess I’d been betrayed enough that I decided I didn’t want to be like the people who’d hurt me before. Through very concerted effort I kept a couple secrets that came my way. Shortly after seeing an episode of Seinfeld I half-jokingly told my roommate, “You can tell me. I’ll put it in the vault,” a reference to character Elaine’s euphemism for keeping a secret. Since I said I would, I kept my word. With time, I noticed people told me more secrets. It’s not something anyone really mentioned; no one ever told me that they noticed I don’t blab so therefore I was their go-to confession booth. But that’s what happened. 

Retelling secrets gives a short-time high, but keeping secrets earns long-time trust. 

Last evening an entertainment show did a story on everyday people who sell out celebrity secrets for a payout from paparazzi. A waitress might get 100 bucks to tip off a photographer about a starlet barfing in a nightclub. “They’re not my friend. I don’t owe them privacy,” said one club worker who wished to remain anonymous (I bet!). The same show interviewed a limousine driver who had seen his share of ill behavior by celebrities. “I could have sold her out,” he said about one young actress who passed out in the back seat of his vehicle after a night of partying. “But I didn’t. I drove her home. I carried her into her house and made sure she was safe.” And he never told who that was. And he has steady work as a nicely-paid private driver. He won't sell out a client just to make rent.

Again I say, telling secrets gives a short-time high (or payout), but keeping secrets earns long-time trust. 

The truth is, I still get the high from hearing a secret. If there wasn’t something juicy about them it wouldn’t be a big deal to keep quiet. For various reasons people sometimes need to tell their secrets. “Nothing makes us so lonely as our secrets” said Swiss author Paul Tournier. Sharing them creates a connection with another person and can unburden the secret-holder. But I have learned to receive them, offer whatever support the confessor needs in that moment, and then lock the secret away in a mental safe deposit box. Processed and sealed up like the Ark of the Covenant was in the final scene of Raiders of the Lost Ark, deep in a vast warehouse with countless other sealed crates.

A confession from Postsecret.com

Consider the popularity of the website PostSecret. What began as one man's blog forum for people to mail in postcards with a single anonymous secret has grown into multiple published books and an ongoing nationwide speaking tour. Everyone has secrets. Sharing them, even anonymously is therapeutic and allows us to connect with others via our own fears and faults, regardless of whether we actually meet or speak in person.

But don’t mistake that personal connection as permission to do with the information as you wish. Instead, use it to strengthen a bond of human trust. Put it in the vault. At some point the secret may become irrelevant, but the fact that you kept it will not.

The Headline Said These Are the Best of Times

A recent Buzzfeed list was 19 Reasons Your College Friends will be your Friends for Life. It was posted on Facebook by a grad school classmate who’s 15 years younger than me; much closer to college and more gullible likely to want to believe this headline. 

Before you call me cynical—which I totally am—I will admit that I have my moments of sentimentality and dedication to certain friends with whom I shared utterly humiliating situations between the ages of 18-24. But I don’t have a core circle of friends that has lasted for two decades as this list infers should have happened. Many of my freshman friendships didn’t last through sophomore year.  Nonetheless, a few of the items in the list hold weight for me 25 years after I began college:

1990, me and Lisa on my 18th birthday

You lived together.

There is something about sharing a 12 x 12 dorm room with a stranger that makes you learn things you never thought you’d learn about another person. Somehow knowing those things binds you together in ways you can’t undo. You learn ways of knowing when they’re lying, when they’re upset, or when they’re hiding something by the most subtle, and sometimes unusual, of ways. Wearing certain shoes means she’s lying about who she’s going out with. Eating squeeze cheese means she’s homesick. And no matter how hard you try to not know, you always know when she needs to poop.

They’re the best people to do absolutely nothing with.

I experienced this just last week when my freshman year roommate, Lisa, and I got together for a girls’ weekend. We live 2 hours apart but haven’t seen each other in 3 years.  So we rented a place on the beach halfway between our homes for 2 days. Midway through day 1 Lisa said she was going out to read on the patio. I took a nap on the couch inside. We were only going to be together for 30 hours or so, and some might think we should have been DOING STUFF and hanging out TOGETHER…but I was happy just having her nearby. I didn’t need her literally at my side nodding at my conversation to know she was still one of my besties. Despite many years apart, we still share brain waves. I say with complete seriousness that we have conversations without speaking. I cannot explain it, but it’s the closest I’ve come to understanding the connection twins have. Our *doing nothing* is never nothing.

Nothing can beat the hours your spent bonding in the dining hall, gaining the freshman 15 together.  

For real. The dining hall at FSU was the best place to people watch, and it’s where Lisa and I came up with endless nicknames for cute boys and sorority girls, watched couples meet and break up, and eavesdropped on other groups who were most likely doing the same thing we were doing.  There was one guy in particular we called Cool Hand Luke. If he only knew the great pleasure we got watching him build his lunch at the salad bar….

You’ve witnessed each other’s terrible decisions.

And pass no judgment. Because whatever dirt I have on her, she has on me. It’s a Mexican standoff. As long as nobody tells, nobody gets hurt. But like a mom who can scold her kid with a side-eye glance, Lisa and I can still remind each other of a long-buried memory of a behavioral indiscretion merely with a raised eyebrow or nonverbal utterance…those well-timed grunts and snorts that convey entire scenarios that would rather be forgotten. 

 But in all honesty, you’re actually thrilled that she still remembers, because it means you mattered, and that you were important in that time in her life. When you are at someone’s side through their best and their worst, over time it ALL becomes the best of times.

 

Summer 2014, me and Lisa 25 years after meeting as college freshman

 

America's Biggest Threat: Little Girls

It’s been a tough week for 8-year-old girls in America.

In Virginia, Sunnie Kahle was denied return to her current Christian school for not being girly enough. In a letter to her grandmother--her legal guardian--the school inferred that Sunnie’s alternative gender identity was causing confusion among other students and that it was not in line with the school’s biblical teachings. Administrators admitted that she was a very good student and that they “love” her, but I guess not enough to let her keep learning in their institution…unless she wears a dress and grows her hair. 

In South Carolina, Olivia McConnell asked her state representative to sponsor a bill making the Wooly Mammoth the official state fossil. With strong historical and scientific support behind his young constituent’s proposal, Representative Robert Ridgeway brought it to vote in the House, and it passed 94-3. All was a go until Senator Kevin Bryant insisted on amending the bill to include a passage from the Bible explaining the creation of life…which is another banging-head-on-desk essay for another day. Olivia’s bill is currently stalled, not for lack of historical significance, but because a Christian fundamentalist cannot remember that religion has no place in our government, or that the earth is over 6000 years old. He must've missed third grade.

And in Colorado, Kamryn Renfro was suspended for shaving her head, which she did in support of her best friend who was bald due to the effects of chemotherapy treatments. Her crew cut was deemed courageous and supportive dangerous and distracting by school officials.

So we’re punishing young girls for being themselves, for honoring scientific discovery, and for standing with those who are too weak to stand themselves. We’re alienating them, diminishing them, and telling them to hush up and sit pretty.

What. The. Heck.

At an age where these girls should be encouraged in their research, individuality, expression, intelligence, initiative, and ability to connect with others, these schools and politicians are stifling their mental and emotional growth which so necessary is to become well-adjusted adults.

I don’t know the circumstances that led to Sunnie being raised by her grandparents, but situations like that rarely arise because the actual parents are doing an awesome job. So let’s assume she has had some emotional discourse in her past. If she does indeed have gender identity issues, kicking her out of school and away from her friends is not helping the situation. Remember, this is a Christian school... I guess they forgot that line in the Bible about “Suffer the little children to come unto me.” Nothing in that passage about just the pretty ones.

Kamryn said she shaved her head “because it seemed like the right thing to do.” And it was. That sense of empathy is to be applauded in a child, because it shows strong character. Instead of being sent home, Kamryn should have been given an assembly in which to explain her action and inspire her classmates.

And really, Senator Bryant. Leave your Bible where it belongs, in your church of choice and your own home. Keep it out of Congress. Try to learn something from this third-grader today. Olivia will lend you her science book. 

Don’t banish these girls for their haircuts and their boyish t-shirts. Don’t dismantle their budding interest in government and science while hiding behind your Bible-shield. The times, they have a-changed. 

Keep at it, girls. When grown men in positions of power are threatened by your drive, your passion, and your fortitude, you know you’re doing something right. 

Running Into the Sun

I have a love/hate relationship with running.

I like the way I feel after I've done it but I don't really enjoy doing it.
I like the shoes but not the shorts.
I like that at a lot of races they hand out beer afterwards.

I fully understand the benefits of regular running, and I see how great my runner friends look, but I still struggle with motivating myself to do it.


When I got up this morning after sleeping in late, I opened up Facebook. The top-most post was a picture of four women who'd just completed a 5K run. Good grief, I thought, I've only made it downstairs and they've already competed in athletic pursuits. One of the women in the photo is a good friend of mine, let's call her Fancy.

Fancy has been through a lot health-wise, more than most women her age. And she's done it all while raising her young kids and maintaining a seriously busy career. She's the type of person who looks at the life cards she's dealt, plays them as best she can despite sometimes ominous odds, and impressively keeps winning the game.

Her most recent medical episode involved a pretty serious surgery, which went well. But during her recovery she developed pneumonia. And then a pulmonary embolism, which can be fatal if not caught and treated immediately. Because of this, Fancy suffered a pulmonary infarction: tissue death of a portion of her right lung. Through quick action and modern medicine, Fancy survived, and a mere two weeks later was able to throw her husband a big 40th birthday party. This lady doesn't slow down for nuthin'.

So when I saw her pictured at the finish line of a foot race, I was more than happy, more than impressed. I was motivated. If Fancy can do it six months after cheating death, with only 1-1/2 lungs...I can surely do it with two. Let's run!

From Jackson Browne's Running on Empty:

Everyone I know, everywhere I go
People need some reason to believe
I don't know about anyone but me
If it takes all night, that'll be all right
If I can get you to smile before I leave

More Than Chocolate

As a general rule, 7th-grade boys are gross. They smell funny, their voices are changing, and they think they're cooler than they are. Straddling the age between kid and teenager, they're still wearing boy scout uniforms, but stuffed in their pocket is a crumpled page from a Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition that they swiped from their uncle's garage. Their idea of humor is fart jokes, shooting girls with rubberbands, and stepping on the backs of our shoes to give us "flat tires." Charming.

But Ryan was different. He was my 7th-grade boyfriend in 1984. A preppy boy with green eyes and freckles, he played tennis and wore one of those braided rope bracelets. I had my eye on him in 6th grade but it wasn't until 7th that I mentioned my affinity for him to a girl at the busstop. The loudmouth promptly told everyone at the busstop, and upon reaching school that morning went directly to Ryan to tell him that I thought he was cute. Nothing is secret in 7th grade. I silently prepared to have my affections rejected.

To my surprise, that didn't happen. In fact, Ryan said hi to me in the hall. And then I started running into him more between classes. We wrote notes back and forth. He'd walk me to class, and hold my books while I went to my locker. Sometimes he'd call me in the evening. He was a really sweet boy, genuinely nice, and never once made fun of me or blew me off. He was my introduction to the Nice Guy. When I cut my hair, he told me it looked nice, which is funny because it looked like a boy's haircut to me. And he didn't care that I was 6 inches taller than him.

Best of all, on Valentine's Day he gave me a great big heart-shaped box of chocolates; so big that every other girl could see me carrying it (yesssss!). And every girl on the bus was suddenly my best friend--the ones who'd previously laughed at me when they found out I liked Ryan now wanted a piece of my prize. Sorry, suckers.

In our yearbook he signed, "Love Always, Ryan" and drew a heart around the words in red pen.
As it turns out, the last time I ever saw him was the last day of the 7th grade school year. That summer my family was out of the country for a few weeks on vacation, and when we returned I called Ryan to tell him about my trip. His phone number was disconnected. I like to think that he tried to call me before he (assumedly) moved away, but this was pre-voice mail, pre-caller ID, and my family didn't have an answering machine.

This photo was taken on that last day of school. I grabbed a friend to snap it just before Ryan got on his bus home.



I eventually married another Nice Guy. My husband is a genuinely sweet, honest, thoughtful man. It took me a while to find him, but I knew he existed out there somewhere. I knew since way back when that the Nice Guy was worth searching for. So today, on Valentine's Day, before I have a glass of wine with my lovey and cuddle on the couch, I give a quick thought to Ryan, wherever he is, and appreciate the hope he gave me about the existence of men worth holding out for.

The Hardest Word

There have been a few days in my life when out of nowhere an apology arrived. Not for missing a meeting or saying a curt word, but for something much bigger and deep seated.

I once reconnected with an old friend after a fallout caused us to not speak to each other for over a decade. In my heart I had long since gotten over any anger or resentment that had once existed, and my only goal was renewing the friendship that had previously been so fabulous.

In one of our first email exchanges after all those years, she apologized for all that had gone down between us (I'm paraphrasing here). I neither expected nor needed an apology from her. She had been globally forgiven years before. It surprised me so much to read it that I didn't know what to do with it. I actually felt bad that she felt she needed to apologize. But it does speak volumes about what a wonderful person she is.

Another even more unexpected apology came from an old boyfriend with whom I'd shared a tumultuous relationship that spanned the emotions from "awesomely perfect" to "how could my life be any worse?" Several years after we'd parted ways and both found and married our respective true loves, he found me on Facebook and promptly apologized for treating me so badly way back when. He said, "You didn't deserve to be treated like that." (yeah, no kidding!) He assured me that he had his head on straight now and was 'towing the line' or some other platitude. There were no strings attached to it, no favor requested. It was just a sincere apology, delivered genuinely and without prompting (and seriously out of character).

There was a real sense of redemption in these offerings. Even when you've already released the anger/resentment from yourself and have learned from the experience and let it go...a sincerely delivered apology, even long after it was needed, does succeed in bringing some peace to the world.

I don't know what triggered the need for these two friends to come to me like that, or how long they'd felt the need to do so, or even the specific events that stuck in their minds as needing correction. It didn't feel proper for me to ask. I felt it was my place to graciously accept what they offered, and move forward.

I don't think it's ever too late to apologize. You can't be sure how it will be received, but a genuine effort does mean something very real.

You Know Where to Find Me

It's a curious place to be dancing on the fringe and have other people tell you that you're not happy there. Disguised by phrases like, "I just want what's best for you," and "You could be really happy/successful/popular if you'd just..", people always seem to know what's best for you even when they don't know what drives you.

I figured out a while ago that I like being on the outskirts. For a long time I fought that. I thought everybody should want to be in the thick of it, the center of attention, on stage for the world to gawk at and (allegedly) aspire to. But then I realized that when you're "there", it's a constant battle to stay "there" and friendships are fragilely based on mutual promotion.

In the outskirts you're freer to be who you want to be. There's room to breathe. Room to twirl. Room to see what's really going on. And room to ignore who and what you wish to ignore.

But take heed when center stage sees your bliss out there on the fringe. Oh mama, that unleashes the fury. How dare you enjoy life on your own terms!

There are certain people who only enjoy life when they dominate the rest of us. Those people want you to want what THEY want, and they really want you to want what they have (or perceive themselves to have), because that is what makes them feel superior. They want to see the green monster of envy in your eyes because that is what validates them. And when you don't want what they think is important, it's an affront to their personal values.

It's tiring dealing with people like this.

My Love Affair With Neil Perry

As the students crowded around trophy cases full of old black-and-white photographs, the teacher crouched behind them and slowly whispered, “Carpe…carpe diem…seize the day, boys…make your lives extraordinary….”

I never took a Latin class, but I did learn to love that phrase: Carpe diem.

During my senior year of high school, my creative writing teacher introduced us to a soon-to-be-released movie called Dead Poets Society. She had gotten hold of some condensed versions of the movie script, and we read it aloud in class. I remember our Australian exchange student played the part of the inspirational teacher in the reading, and I still hear her accented voice saying those words, carpe diem.

It was a good enough story in its shortened version; I was very much into poetry at the time, and anything that this particular teacher recommended I took as gospel. So when the movie came out the summer after I graduated, I was eager to see it.
The movie told the story of a group of high school boys enrolled at a boarding prep school in New England in the 1950s. Their lives were dramatically changed by the introduction of a radically inspirational new teacher, Mr. Keating, as played by Robin Williams. Through unconventional methods he taught them to question the status quo, to be free thinkers, and to “do more…be more.” It was the message I needed to hear at precisely the time I needed to hear it.

At the time I had just turned 17 and was eager to get away to college and experience everything new. I was soaking up every word my own radically inspirational teacher said. I was yearning to be worldly and wise.

At college, I introduced one of my freshman year roommates to DPS. She fell in love with it just like I did, and this bond was a major pillar of our friendship. Whenever it played at the dollar theater, we caught a ride to see it. If we heard a dorm-mate had rented it, we knocked on her door to watch it. We regularly quoted lines from it in everyday conversation. It was a part of us. And how we loved those boys; she loved Knox, I loved Neil.

But really, we loved them all. They were the boys we wanted to meet, the boys who would write us poetry and reveal secrets about themselves to us. Boys who would find us beautiful but be even more interested in our minds.

We didn’t meet those boys anytime soon, certainly not that year. But the movie gave us hope that they were out there. And it gave us a seed of motivation that, 20 years later, I can see has grown in both of us and influenced choices we’ve made along the way. Both professionally and personally we’ve heard that whisper coming from behind us saying, “seize the day…make your life extraordinary.”

There are so many lines that spoke to me in that movie, I could fill pages just quoting them all. But one of the strongest was, “The powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.” It is my life’s goal to contribute a verse that is remembered. It is why I write and why I push myself to reach out to relationships I was previously scared to pursue. I’m still working my way up to a barbaric YAWP, as Mr. Keating encouraged the boys to exalt. I try to remember, as he told them, that “poetry, beauty, romance, love—these are what we stay alive for.”

I still get choked up every single time I watch that movie. The beauty of scenery, the truth of the theme, and the emotion of the tragedy never fail to touch me. But above all, the closing scene where the boys take a final stand to honor their teacher who was forced out of his job shaped the way I view loyalty. I hope that when the opportunity arises I can be as courageous as they were in standing up to defend the honor of someone I truly believe in. And I hope that my contributed verse will be honorable.

The Smile as Bright as a Painted Bunting

I had a disturbing dream last night. I often have vivid dreams which I remember the next day, and they are usually filled with characters from what my husband calls “central casting.” One dream will be populated with random people from my entire life, usually who’ve never met each other, but they’ve all crossed my path at one time. But this dream was more striking in its choice of characters.

I dreamed that I was living in a new apartment and went next door to meet my neighbor. He was nobody that I can place in my mind. But then his roommate walked in, and I recognized his face and name though I know I’ve never met him in real life. He’s the older brother of a friend from high school, J. I told him my name, but before I could say anything further, the brother recognized me. He said, “I know who you are. J’s face would always light up whenever he talked about you.”

That is the part that makes my heart ache. About 3 years ago J killed himself. I found out about it by reading the obituaries in the newspaper. I was unaware at the time that we were living in the same city. We had lost touch since high school, and this was before everyone was on Facebook. There was a picture accompanying the obit, so there was no second-guessing who it was. Those dimples were unmistakable. It was unreconcilable in my mind that this face that so often lit up so beautifully was now forever dimmed.

A few months later I found out more details of the incident and what precipitated it, which made me hurt even more. It seems J was working at a restaurant at the time, and I realized that by pure coincidence I had gone to that very restaurant the day before he died. But our group ultimately decided to eat across the street instead because the wait was too long at J’s restaurant.
For a long time I thought if only we’d gone there as planned, I would have seen him and we would have hugged and talked and we would have exchanged numbers or emails. I kept thinking that meeting might have been a tiny spark of joy in his obviously troubled mind. That spark might have led to a phone call that might have changed future events.

But it didn’t. If only, if only….

So I’m left with the vision in my dream, of a brother I’ve never met telling me that I meant something to this lost friend.

In my pile of mementos I have a note that J had written to me in high school. It’s covered in hearts and smiley faces. I’m not sure why I saved it for so many years; it doesn’t say anything particularly special, just one of those notes you write when you’re bored in class. “Maybe we can go out next weekend,” he said.

My Best Days, Part 1

One of my college roommates has written a book that is a guide to gratitude. Conscious gratitude is supposed to improve our outlook on life and bring us joy. So in that spirit, I’m starting a new recurring feature of the blog.

Called My Best Days, it will be a recollection of singular days that in themselves might not have been dramatic or life-altering, but were memorable simply for being good. The experiences were simple but they continue to remind me of how life can be great through a collection of bright moments.

My Best Days, Part 1….LaJolla, California, 07-06-2000

I get lost in thought when I see these photos. I was visiting one of my best friends in the world (of course, a “Jen”) who was living in the San Diego area. She had a cute little apartment in La Jolla, just two blocks from the Pacific coast. We spent this particular morning hiking the hills and rocks along the shoreline.



It was misty and breezy in the morning, but in typical fashion the marine layer lifted by noon and our sweatshirts came off.

This picture was taken on a pedestrian bridge that spanned a small cove of ocean that jutted into the landscape.



The water could not have been bluer, the foliage greener, or the sun cast a more golden glow on everything. I kept looking right, then left, then ahead, and then back again…I just couldn’t take in enough of the panorama. At that point I remembered a coworker telling me that when she went to San Diego, she felt like her soul was where it belonged. That is what I felt here!

And it was so quiet, save for the water hitting the rocks, the blowing breeze, and our own laughter.

I don’t know how far we hiked, probably only a mile or two. Maybe “hiking” isn’t the best word…aerobic meandering is more like it.

We watched the seals on the pier. I saw gnarly trees that appeared to be directly out of a Dr. Seuss book.
We laughed uncontrollably when a squirrel looked at us funny. It was that kind of day, where nothing could have gotten us down.

We ate lunch at bistro in LaJolla Village, and to this day I swear it was the best sandwich I’ve ever eaten. Turkey and cheddar on rosemary bread.

Two old friends with no schedule to keep, warm sunshine, and laughter. It was a day where I can truthfully say I completely relaxed and loved every...single...minute.

I still think of that day whenever I eat rosemary bread.

The Rowdy Girls

I’ve written before about the very special episodes of the TV sitcoms of my youth, with some sarcasm. But not all were as corny as I made them out to be. One that I first saw in 1989 still resonates with me, and truly did partially shape who I am.

Season 4, Episode 6 of Designing Women was titled “The Rowdy Girls.” In it, main character Charlene introduces the other women to one of her childhood friends, Mavis. By chance Charlene stumbles upon Mavis’s husband physically abusing her. When confronted by Charlene about it, pregnant Mavis knows that it’s wrong, but claims she can’t leave because she doesn’t have any money of her own, all her credits cards are in her husband’s name, and where would she and her three young daughters go? She’s embarrassed, humiliated, and feels helpless to change her situation.

The next day Charlene comes to see Mavis again, and hands her an envelope of money from herself and the other women. The money is to allow Mavis to leave her husband, and Charlene tells her where and when to meet up with her, and she would find them a safe place to go.

Mavis is stunned when she looks inside the envelope. She asks, “Why would your friends do this? They don’t even know me.”

Charlene answers, “Because that’s the kind of people they are...and that’s why they’re my friends.”

As a teenager, I didn’t know anyone who was being abused. It was something I only learned about on TV talk shows or in school assemblies. I never knew anyone who needed to get out of a dangerous situation like that. But I was still affected by this show, and every time I watched it in reruns years later I had an emotional reaction.

As an adult, I eventually came to know friends who needed a way out of something, be it an abusive relationship or an unhealthy living environment. I remembered Mavis and Charlene, and I made a mental note to be a Rowdy Girl myself. I decided that I would be “that kind” of person; the person who sees when a friend is in trouble and makes the step to show her a way out and give her the necessary help without being asked for it. The friend who helps quietly and unselfishly, not for thanks but for the sake of doing the right thing.

On the show, Mavis does eventually leave her husband, and when she meets up with Charlene later, The Supremes’ song “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” is playing prominently. I just heard that song on the radio yesterday, and even 20 years later it still calls to mind this episode and reminds me of my aim.

I still strive to be “that kind of friend.” The friend who sees through the excuses and coverups, one who listens to the shaky voices and realizes I’ve been placed in that moment for a reason, and that I can and should make a difference. It’s not always easy to see the need, and sometimes I feel as helpless as those who need the help. But I keep trying.

On Choosing and Keeping Friends

Choose friends who support your dreams and goals, even if they don’t fully understand them.

Choose people who allow you to pick your own friends and don’t try to discourage you away from other friendships out of their own jealousy.

Choose people who will invest time and effort into the friendship. One-sided friendships are tiring and demeaning.

Don’t expect your friends to go above and beyond to help you, but appreciate them when they do it. Make sure you reciprocate when the chance arises. Find a reason to reciprocate.

Realize that you and your friends are going to disagree on some things, and that their opinions are just as valid as yours. Their truth may be different from yours, but it’s still their truth.

If friends are getting their opinions from other people, that is not a true friendship. Be wary of relationships based on pack mentality.

Always remember that you don’t know everything that is going on in your friends’ lives/minds/family/job/health/finances.

There is a difference between privacy, secrecy, and lies. We are all entitled to privacy. Sometimes secrecy is necessary for safety. Lies are always toxic.

If you have a problem with a friend, you have three choices: Let it fester inside of you, confront them directly about it, or let it go. Nobody wins with option #1. But option #2 often leads to #3, and peace can be restored.

Sometimes friendships end. People change and so do interests and commonalities. Putting a friendship to rest is not failure, but rather acknowledgment of truth and growth. All friendships will not last forever, and that’s okay. Knowing what you need and from where you can draw strength is maturity, and putting to rest relationships that don’t foster growth or joy is to be commended. There is no good reason to stay in a toxic relationship.

Left of Center

Last weekend I attended my high school graduating class’s 20-year reunion. I was expecting to walk into a John Hughes movie when I walked into the country club. The prom scene from “Pretty in Pink” is what I pictured.

While the ‘80s music played in the posh venue and we dined on a surprisingly impressive meal, I was much more playing the part of observant attendee rather than the interacting social butterfly. If you want me, you can find me left of center, off of the strip. In the outskirts, in the fringes, in the corner out of the grip.

I found my curiosity in the popular crowd to be almost nonexistent. I wanted to see what the stay-at-home moms with the rich husbands and unlimited spending power were wearing, but after that detail, the formerly fascinating popular crowd bored me. I don’t care anymore what they do or where they live. I don’t care what their kids’ trendy names are. I can pretty much guess what their lives are like. Out of habit I was still snarking on a couple of the old mean girls, but it wouldn’t be fun without a little snark. When they ask me, ‘what are you looking at?’ I always answer ‘nothing much, not much.’

I was much more focused on realizing who I am now drawn to in friendships. The maturity of the women made me happy. That the wives and girlfriends of my former boyfriends/dates can make friends with me now is how it should be. Decades have passed, and I am not pursuing your husband. Thank you for realizing that we actually can all be friends and appreciate each other. I think that somehow, somewhere inside of us, we must be similar, if not the same.

I was also more apt to let go of attempts at friendships that I just don’t care about or know aren’t healthy. I didn’t feel the need to be nice for more than a minute to those whose friendly appearances shaded unfriendly pasts. Maybe these attempts were sincere, maybe they didn’t remember how they treated me back then, or maybe they do remember but were hoping that I’d forgotten.

Maybe they don’t remember anything at all and were just acting their way through the crowd, hoping no one would notice their oblivion.

Whatever the case, I DO remember and I’m done with them. It’s not out of spite or revenge, but rather a lack of desire to reconcile those emotions within myself. My hurt feelings have been neatly tucked away for 10-20 years without incident and I’m perfectly content to leave them that way. Amends do not have to be made with everyone. I’m okay with that. Go hang with your crowd and leave me with mine. Unless you have a sincere apology for me, we don’t need to act like we’re friends.

Sometimes the expectation of seeing someone for the first time in years brings so much anticipation that it’s anticlimactic when you realize you don’t have much to say. A hug and “you look good!” is all that comes forward. You never know when dead air will hit. So I continue to be wanting you, left of center, against the grain.

I saw emotions in classmates’ eyes that I recognized because I’ve had them in my own eyes. I know the look of missed opportunity, the look of a broken friendship walking by, the look of regret, the look of repressed hurt, the look of relief and glad-I-got-out-of-that-situation. I saw the disbelief and shock at the realization of change.

I saw joy that negated the expanse of years of noncommunication, and I saw sincerity that made all the traveling worth it if just for those few minutes of rekindled mutual admiration.

I saw spouses secretly wondering if they know the real story behind the person they just met as I watched hugs that lingered longer. I could discern between smiles of joy and smiles of politeness. I think they know that, I’m looking at them, I think they must think I’m out of touch. But I’m only in the outskirts, and in the fringes, on the edge, and off the avenue…

Still, I wouldn’t trade my time this weekend with my old friends for anything. I would bargain away most things in life for more time with them. They get me, they laugh at me, and they let me laugh at them. They make themselves available as friends in so many ways.

And if you want me, you can find me left of center, wondering about you.

Wondering about you.

Great Taste, Less Embarrassment

Over the weekend I attended a 4th of July party at the home of a friend whom I’ve known since elementary school. Upon being introduced to the other guests, I was greeted by my friend’s mother, whom I haven’t seen in at least 20 years, but with whom I had been fairly well acquainted in the past. We hugged our hellos, and sat down to chat.

Mrs. B was the mother who was always available to help with end-of-the-year class parties, chaperone field trips, and drive the car pool. She was the super-sweet, always-smiling mom who was helpful to all of her son’s classmates. She made sure we buckled our seatbelts in her station wagon and always offered a ride home to the walkers when it was raining after school. All-American sitcom moms were modeled after this lady.

Strangely, when she next offered me a beer at the party, I hesitated. It was a hot summer afternoon and we were sitting out by the pool, so a cold beer would have been perfect. But I suddenly felt like I was 9 years old again, and a beer suddenly felt like something I wasn’t allowed to have. Surely she should have offered me a nice soft drink instead. Did I hear wrong? No, she definitely said “beer” because she was now reciting the various choices on hand. I finally stammered a weak, “yes, please…thank you…” and took my seat.

When she returned with a chilled Samuel Adams Summer Ale zipped up in a koozie, I found myself unable to take a sip while she was watching. It didn’t matter that she was drinking one herself (after all, she’s an adult!), and it didn’t matter that her son was also drinking one…heck, everyone at the party was drinking them. It didn’t matter that I’m 37 years old and have been legally drinking for 16 years. All I could think was, this is Mrs. B and she just handed me a beer…not Kool-Aid, not chocolate milk, but an icy cold beer. Just like I can’t call her by her first name, I couldn’t sip a beer in front of my childhood friend’s mom. I waited till she distracted by one of the grandkids before I could imbibe.

As the evening progressed my self consciousness faded, and I couldn’t help but laugh at myself for once again reverting to the shy, always-does-the-right-thing girl I once was. It was another reminder that time marches on; another chapter in the book of Hey, When Did Everybody Grow Up?

Think but this, and all is mended...

I had an eye-opening dream last night. I dreamt that amends were made in a confusing relationship that dates back 30 years.

From elementary through middle school I had one best friend. We had all our classes together, we practiced gymnastics together, were both very much girly girls. We were competitive in school but only to the point of motivating each other to do better, we never got jealous if the other did better on a test. We incessantly wrote notes back and forth. It all made sense.

In junior high things were a little different; we were still friends but there was a growing distance between us. We didn’t have many classes together and we were starting to make new friends in our bigger school.

By sophomore year of high school, there was no trace that a friendship had ever existed. We wouldn’t speak to each other, we couldn’t look each other in the eye, we didn’t even acknowledge the other’s presence. To this day, I have no idea why. Our lack of relationship made no sense to me. We hadn’t had a fight, we weren’t rivals over the same boy, and no amount of “what’s wrong?” questioning got me anywhere with her.

There was no conversation about it; she simply decided we were not friends anymore. And that was it. I lost my best friend.

As dumb luck would have it, we both made the JV cheerleading squad that year. How ironic that the team whose sole reason of existence—to promote teamwork and unity—had such divisive hatred within its own ranks. I clearly remember the coach instructing the two of us to be partners in a stunt, and neither of us budged. We both stood firmly in our spots, waiting for the other to take the first step. “MOVE IT, girls!” the coach demanded. Reluctantly we complied and formed the base of the world’s most angry pyramid.

I have a picture of us performing another partner stunt, again not of our own free will, and the look of utter disdain on her face for having to actually touch me is heartbreaking to me even now. What made me SO unworthy of her acceptance? I know I did nothing wrong. But, sadly, this question continued to nag at me for 2 decades.

I hate that it still bothers me. It makes me feel like I’m emotionally stunted, unable to get over a simple relationship. Friendships come and go all the time, part of the circle of life, right? This wasn’t the first friendship I’d lost nor was it the last.

But I feel it nonetheless, and denying it would be denying a portion of my human existence. For whatever reason, the abrupt ending of this friendship affected me. It broke something in me that has remained with me all this time, like a broken secondhand of a clock that just hangs downward, unable to spin. It doesn’t affect that day-to-day functioning, but it sure would be nice to restore it to what it once was.

But back to the dream. It was simple. In it I was attending my high school 20-year reunion, which in reality I will be attending in a few months. In the dream, she and I are walking toward each other, and before I can walk the opposite direction or look away, she speaks to me. While I can’t remember the exact words—as often happens in my dreams—the sentiment was crystal clear: she simply put an end to the feud. There was no blame placed and no apology made, but one wasn’t needed.

It was as if we simultaneously popped a bubble of anger that had been encircling each of us.

I woke rather suddenly from this dream, and remembered it immediately, feeling like I was still in it. I had a sense of peace, as if the exchange had really taken place between us.

The “why” of it all doesn’t matter anymore. For over 20 years it did, but I now realize we could easily spend 20 more years rehashing the “why” in an endless circle, and likely still not accomplish anything.

I never hated her. I only treated her badly then because she treated me badly first, and in the world of teenage girls you can’t look like you’re just taking the abuse. Never let them see you sweat and never let them know they got to you.

The reasons for our actions back then most likely wouldn’t make sense now. They’d either hurt or embarrass one or both of us to air them, and neither of those feelings is necessary in order to move ahead. We both had other personal issues we were struggling with in our respective lives that the other didn’t know about and which influenced our actions. We were young and emotionally immature, unable to deal with everything falling on us.

Two things keep repeating in my mind. A few lines from the closing monologue by Puck in A Midsummer Night’s Dream:

If we shadows have offended
Think but this, and all is mended…
Give me your hands if we be friends
and Robin shall restore amends.

The other is a few lines from Sarah McLachlan’s song “Adia,” which I never knew the story behind, but from the first time I heard it, it has always reminded me of this friend:

we are born innocent
believe me Adia, we are still innocent
it's easy, we all falter does it matter?
believe me Adia, we are still innocent...