Since the dawn of my consciousness, I’ve suffered from a very bizarre and irrational belief: no one wants to be my friend. Perhaps that’s a bit harsh—it’s more like I’m continually overcome with incredulity when someone asks me to hang out. “Why does she want to go to coffee with me?” I wonder every time a potential new friend makes a move.
I imagine the teasing I endured in elementary school by a bunch of snotty OC girls didn’t help. My mother threw me into the Brownies, a division of the Girl Scouts (and yes, we sold those cookies—and I was bingeing on Thin Mints by the age of six). Most of the girls in my Brownie troop lived in our Huntington Beach neighborhood and were straight-up bitches. Later, I would learn that these girls simply took after their straight-up bitchy mommies, who my mother admitted weren’t really nice to her either.
Kimmie was the troop leader’s daughter and a real pill. She had shiny golden-blonde hair that curled around her pale round face, with rosy cheeks, big blue eyes and a pug nose. That Kimmie thought she was the real “it shit.” She attended this posh Cotillion all through elementary school where she learned social etiquette and how to dance with boys properly. I remember going to her house just once because my mother had to talk to her mother about something, and she modeled a baby-blue princess Cotillion dress for me—pretty much a duplicate of Cinderella’s gown in the Disney flick—and bragged about how an ugly boy asked her to dance, but she got rid of him by asking him to get her a napkin. Years later, I heard through the grapevine that as an adult, Kimmie made a living playing Cinderella in Disneyland’s Main Street Electrical Parade.
(It should be noted that I just put this essay on hold to hunt down these girls on Facebook, and, much to my delight, I found all of them. Kimmie’s family portrait looks like a less-grotesque version of something out of the Real Housewives of Orange County. Thankfully, my family moved to LA when I was eight.)
The Brownie girls called me a “pig” because I ate a lot as a little girl—mainly because I loved sugar—but also because I had a manic metabolism. Despite being scrawny and tall for my age, they still made fun of how much I ate at our potlucks and parties. Then, at the Girl Scout Olympics, they placed me at the end of a long, single-file line and we marched around the football field. It soon became obvious that the line served as a popularity contest; Kimmie’s best friend was in the front (it would be too obvious if her mother, the troop leader, put her in the front), and then came Kimmie, then Kimmie’s other close friend and then down the line to us reject nerds. Apparently, I was the biggest reject (literally and figuratively) and the whole experience made me really depressed. I was just seven years old.
Since I was never the popular girl in elementary school, middle school or junior high, I was shocked in high school when some of the cooler girls wanted to be my friend, mostly because we were thespians and performed in the school plays. Still, I was shy and reticent at first, slightly suspicious and terrified, wondering when they were going to lash out and make fun of me. It never happened.
College was sort of okay, but I was equally shocked when some of the sorority girls wanted to hang out. I am now convinced that since my trauma with girls began at such a young age, it stuck with me and shaped my view of myself and my fear of women hasn’t entirely vanished. I still suffer from an inferiority complex and am especially wary of pretty and successful girls, wondering why the hell they’d want to hang out with me.
For whatever reason, many do—women of all shapes and stripes. Since I’m plagued with this irrational fear, I’m loath to reach out to them, despite their expressed interest. Mind you, I still suffer from waves of mild-to-moderate depression every now and then which depletes my energy and sometimes turns me into a veritable shut-in. But even when I snap out of that, it’s very hard to initiate getting together with women I’m just starting to get to know.
“Hey! Want to go to yoga together?” a new friend will ask.
“Why the fuck does she want to go with me???” I’ll say to myself. “Her BFF must be dead or out of town.” But I’ll still go. Then, said friend will initiate again.
“Let’s go to lunch!”
“Why the fuck does she want to go to lunch with me?” I’ll say to myself. “Her BFF must be busy or maybe they had a massive falling out.” Still, I’ll hit lunch.
By that time, it’s polite for me to reciprocate, but I’m often too afraid to do so, petrified of being rejected. I’m terrified to call, lest I bug her.
Over the past year, I’ve made a lot of new friends out of colleagues, and this has forced me to go outside my comfort zone and get acquainted with people since we have work as a common interest. In fact, I’ve also made new guy friends, which has been an especially rewarding experience since I’ve also been scared to do that (given I often fall for my guy friends and they don’t like me back, or vice versa).
Whether with editors, fellow writers or photographers, I’ve had to break out of my shell and meet up with people, and knowing in advance that these women and men have a vested interest in befriending me makes it easier.
“This is a mutually beneficial professional relationship,” I’ll say to myself, “so they definitely want to hang.”
Over time it has become super clear that these people don’t just want a business relationship, but also a genuine friendship. Of course, there are plenty of jerks in LA who are really superficial and only want to hang out with people they can get something from. But these new friends aren’t like that. Even after we go our separate ways professionally (like when one editor ceased to be my editor), we remain close.
Now I realize it’s up to me to let go of my past and move on from the snotty brats who made fun of me when I was a Brownie and live in today. I’m not eight years old—we’re all grown-ups now. And anyway, I’m sure Kimmie wouldn’t be such a cunt today—kids are often assholes by default and given time, they grow out of it.
While historically I have been intimidated by pretty girls and avoided them (thanks to Kimmie and her crew of mean girls), by taking “contrary action” this year (as they say in AA) I’ve found the courage to reach out to more women like this. It turns out one of my closest new friends was homecoming queen and the most popular girl in her high school. When I first heard this, I wanted to drop her as a friend, scared that she’d be two-faced or catty or maybe stab me in a back with a steak knife. But after a year or so of getting acquainted, I realized that like a true friend, she’s got my back.
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