I'm Not Popular

Wikipedia defines popularity this way: a social phenomena that dictates who or what is best liked.

Simple, right?  No so much.

Like so many other concepts - wealthy or good looking are examples - it is essentially impossible to be popular. Why? Because no matter what there is always someone wealthier, better looking or more popular than you.

I've been mulling over popularity recently, after a conversation with a friend about some cliquish, mean behavior she witnessed.  She wasn't the target - just about everyone else not present in the room was - but it made her fearful because she realized that when she isn't in the room she's probably a target, too. She was fearful, hurt, and mulling over what makes a true friend.

I have many friends. I'm really blessed. I no longer think about popularity, ever, and it used to be something that was more important to me than I like to admit.

The irony is that when I thought about popularity a lot I had very few friends. Now that I don't think about it anymore I have many, many friends. And by friends I mean people who are so interwoven into my life they are like oxygen to me, not people I chat with in the supermarket aisle.

Before, I had a mission to be liked, not just by close friends but all the supermarket aisle people, too. And not just liked, but liked best.

When I was drinking, and in early sobriety (which I think of as my whole first year), being liked was the most important thing to me. I would shape-shift to become who you wanted me to be, virtually guarantying you would think I was great, because I would remind you of you.

I realized that what my friend was witnessing with the Mean Girls (and, yes, they are Mean Girls even though they are middle aged women) was the insatiable urge to be liked best.  One way to be sure you're liked best is to make sure other people aren't liked as much as you.  Putting others down to inflate your own ego is the cheap, easy way to perceived popularity.

It's not real popularity, because as I said above real popularity doesn't exist. Stepping on the heads of others to put your place a little higher is a fleeting thing, because you're surrounded by people who are just waiting for their turn to step on you.

As I look around my life today I'm surrounded by friends that not only wouldn't ever step on me, they would do anything to boost me up. I'm the same way with them.

This doesn't mean we don't disagree, or argue, or feel hurt. That happens, not often, but it does happen.  The beauty is that we mend our rifts, soothe our wounds, and in the process strengthen our bond.

I knew I was finally growing out of my need to be popular when, a few years ago, I ran head-first into a wall of criticism.

There were people out there who didn't like me - me! - the person who had bent over backwards to never hurt a fly and to be kind and giving no matter what!  OH, the righteous indignation, the burning hurt and shame.  Were my critics right? Did I need to change what I say - who I am - to be liked?  

Slowly, and with the help of dear friends in recovery, I learned the kind, gentle person I believed myself to be was a fraud. I was no better than the hurtful people, because I wasn't showing my true self to them. Or, as it turns out, to myself.  I was unfailingly polite, friendly and kind, even as I grit my teeth in the face of horrible behavior.

I learned to be okay with people disagreeing with me, with what I stand for. I stopped taking not being liked personally. I realized people can not like me, and that my life goes on.  My critics make me think. I listen to what they have to say, and try to remain teachable.  As long as they aren't being insulting. I stop listening when insults start. 

They can only step on me if I let them.

Being your true self in all matters is hard. Impossible, really. I get caught up in gossip, sometimes. I fall victim to the 'nobody-likes-me's'.  When I'm with a bunch of people who are gossiping, I don't puff out my chest indignantly and tell them to stop, or cover my ears.  Sometimes I'll walk away, but not always.  Sometimes I even participate.  I tell myself I'm not doing it in a hurtful way, but of course it's almost always hurtful.

I don't get a feeling of superiority from it. I don't do it to be popular, because I've ridden that roller coaster before and I know it leads nowhere.  My goal is to avoid cliquish, gossipy behavior altogether.

There is no reason not to aim high.

It's funny how the Mean People have such pull, though, you know?  How quickly we can be drawn in by their vitriol.  How easily doing the Right Thing feels prudish, dorky, awkward.

Being in recovery has ruined my ability to be petty, though. Not that I never do it, but I can't do it with impunity anymore. I try to surround myself with people who are secure enough in themselves that they don't step on others to raise their own position. For the most part, I'm successful.  But I live in the world, and Mean Happens.

All I can do is cultivate an awareness of my motives, and strive to be a better person in the future, even as I know I won't ever do it perfectly.

How To Reunion (Yes, I made that into a verb)

Tonight is my 25th high school reunion.

I can hear you doing the math.  I'm 43.

I'm not usually one who gets too hung up on age, but there is something about being 25 years out of high school that is getting under my skin.

Maybe it's because I feel, emotionally, about 25?

Physically maybe closer to 30, but nowhere near 43. Not even in the ball park.

I was one of those kids in high school who knew a whole bunch of people, but who didn't really have a clique.  I was a jock who was also in the marching band.  I could hang out in the smoking area (not smoking, don't worry Mom) and not get beat up and held my own with the brains in every topic but math.

So I kind of pinged around, never really finding one place I truly fit in.

Of course, back then, it made me feel wildly unpopular, not having a clique. Looking back, though, I realize not having a clique is actually a blessing.  But try telling that to the girl who thought the bigger her hair was, the more friends she'd have (remember, folks, this is 1987) :

It took me HOURS to make my hair do that. And I think I'm personally responsible for the hole in the ozone due to the amount of hairspray needed.  Okay, maybe my best friend Amanda (in the blue) is also partially responsible (you're welcome, Manda, for sharing this photo with the world. Again.) :

That guy to my right (white suite a la Miami Vice) is Kevin.  We were voted class couple. The guy on the far left is John, Kevin's best friend.  I know Kevin won't be there tonight, which is too bad, but I'm hoping to see John, first to explain that I put a picture of him on the internet,and then to give him a hug.  I think in this picture we were on our way to Senior Class Night. But I digress. I was simply trying to make a point about hairspray, I think.

So I'm a little wistful about my 25th.  Maybe it's because I'm remembering my 5th reunion (or parts of it, anyway, like leaving with only one shoe on) back when I was still drinking.  Or my 20th when I was 90 days sober (not the best idea I ever had) and having someone say to me - bug eyed - "you don't DRINK?! At ALL?!  Man, that must SUCK!".  (And for the record?  That night?  Yes. Yes, it did suck).

Since my 20th reunion I have gotten sober, Amanda has gotten sober, and my life has taken twists and turns I couldn't have imagined (one of them being the blessing of going to my 25th reunion together with my best friend and sober sister).  

It doesn't suck to be sober anymore.  I lost my Dad. I survived cancer.  I built a jewelry business. My kids are both in school full time.  I lost 100 lbs.  I went on Oprah (albeit not because I'm famous, more like infamous).  I lost most of my hair because of radiation, and grew most of it back again.  I'm still vain about my hair, but no longer wrap my self-worth around its poofiness.  

But I don't know that there is anyone who doesn't feel an inkling of insecurity about reunions. I mean, those of us who have stood with our school cafeteria trays looking for a place to sit without looking like we're looking for a place to sit. Or who have waved enthusiastically at a Senior who waved to them when they were only a sophomore only to find him waving to his entire football team, who are all sitting behind you and laughing at you.  Not that that happened to me.  *cough*

Don't we all have that little fantasy of kicking in the door, looking decades younger than our peers, and having everyone gape at us in amazement at how fabulously our life turned out?  

Or is that just me?

Maybe I need a little more work on humility.

Or maybe I'll just crack out the curling iron and hair spray.

Repost - How To Attend a Blogging Conference in 44 Easy Steps. AND info about the Serenity Suite!

NOTE: I'm resurrecting this old chestnut from last year, because - for better or for worse, all of this still applies...   

I have been to a grand total of four blogging conferences now - this one makes my fifth- and I'm starting to notice a trend in my pre-conference weirdness preparations.  For any of you attending your first conference, I thought it may be helpful to share them with you:

THREE WEEKS BEFORE LEAVING FOR CONFERENCE:

1) Make a well organized and lucid checklist of everything to bring to the conference.

SOMEWHERE BETWEEN THREE WEEKS BEFORE AND TWO DAYS BEFORE:

1) Lose checklist.

TWO DAYS BEFORE LEAVING FOR CONFERENCE:

1) Gaze thoughtfully into mirror and notice self for the first time since the last conference.
2) Frantically call every hairdresser in town to schedule an appointment to foil hair.
3) Buy expensive wrinkle cream.
4) Open cosmetic travel bag and find exact same cream purchased for last conference.
5) Stare into closet with glazed expression. Search for perfect outfit to present sleek, put-together look.
6) Realize you do not own one single "outfit".
7) Drag unhappy children to trendy boutique.  Pay too much for sexy top.
8) Hang sexy top next to last year's sexy top, which was never worn because it didn't feel like you.
9) Remember you are recovering people-pleaser and tell self people will have to accept you for who you are.  You are YOU.  You are authentic.
10) Notice wardrobe contains only black pants, black Capris, black shorts and earth tone tops. Wonder if you really have to be that authentic.
11) Apply wrinkle cream before bed.

ONE DAY BEFORE LEAVING FOR CONFERENCE:

1) Wake up and generously apply wrinkle cream.
2) Stare into closet with glazed expression.
3) Call blogging friend to talk about how you really should be packing.
4) Drag unhappy kids back to boutique to purchase trendy, uncomfortable shoes to draw attention away from black pants and earth tone tops.
5) Engage in pre-flying obsessive/compulsive thinking.
6) Kiss the kids goodnight and attempt to ignore thoughts of a fiery plane crash death.
7) Call blogging friend to talk about how you really should be packing.
8) Try on pointy uncomfortable shoes.
9) Fall down.
10) Stay up too late writing a blog post about going to blogging conferences.
11) Apply wrinkle cream.

TWELVE HOURS BEFORE LEAVING FOR CONFERENCE:

1) Open empty suitcase.
2) Remember all the laundry is dirty.
3) Start laundry.
4) Call blogging friend to talk about how you really should be packing.
5) Take clean clothes from dryer and stuff into suitcase.
6) Pack enough shoes for a one month stay.
7) Ponder luggage weight limit.  Shrug and leave everything in suitcase.
8) Apply wrinkle cream generously.
9) Get into bed and lie with eyes open until alarm goes off.

DAY OF CONFERENCE:

1) Apply wrinkle cream.
2) Fend off flying jitters with thoughts of how much more talented/funny/popular everyone else is than you.
3) Totter off plane in trendy, uncomfortable shoes.
4) Purchase band-aids for blisters.
5) Enter hotel wearing mask of bored self-confidence.
6) Flee to room and apply wrinkle cream.
7) Stare with glazed expression at clothes in suitcase.
8) Try on sexy top.
9) Discard sexy top and pointy shoes.
10) Wear black pants, earth tone top and sensible shoes.
11) Take deep breath.
12) Enter conference with mask of bored self-confidence.
13) See a friend.
14) Realize it is all going to be okay.

ALSO - I want to remind everyone about the Serenity Suite - the brainchild of Maggie and Heather and a sanctuary for anyone looking for a quiet, safe, relaxing respite from the craziness of the conference.  As always, the Suite will be an alcohol-free zone, and I will be spending a LOT of time there, (along with several other hosts who are all talented, lovely engaging women); please come by and say hi if you're going to be at BlogHer12.  I'll tweet when I'm there!

Don't be shy about stopping by - whether this is your first conference or your millionth.. the Serenity Suite is a great place to kick back, relax and make a new friend or two.

Becoming That Woman

Ever have one of those moments, where you suddenly pop outside yourself, and realize you've become that person?    That person you couldn't ever, possibly, be old enough to be?  

This happened to me this week.    I was at the hair salon, getting my hair foiled and cut (for the one or two guys that read this blog, "foils" is a fancy way of saying I was getting my hair dyed).      As she is foiling and snipping away, my hairdresser tells me she is expecting her first child.

"OH MY!" I exclaimed, and my hands went all fluttery.    "How exciting!  Your first!  Oh, it's so exciting, your first child!"   On I went, using exclamation point after exclamation point.    She smiled patiently, and kept foiling away.

And then I became that woman:  the one that used to prattle on and on to me when I was pregnant with my first.   At the grocery store, the salon, Babies R Us - everywhere I went it seemed these middle aged women were popping out of the woodwork to go on and on about their first pregnancies, their c-section scars or how many hours they pushed, their colicky babies, their sleepless nights, their - EW - episiotomies (for the one or two guys who read this blog I'll spare you the details).    All this TMI was followed by some Disney-esque exclamation, like:  "Oh, but it's such a magical time!"

As I'm prattling away, I suddenly look as myself in the mirror and I really see myself:  a middle-aged woman getting the greys dyed out of her hair, foils sticking madly off my head, bags under my eyes, and - gulp - an age spot or two on my hands.   My hairdresser hasn't said a word in about ten mintues.   I didn't go so far as to talk about c-section scars or episiotomies, but I came really close.

When did this happen?   When did I become the woman of two school aged kids, who won't be having any more children, who is talking to young pregnant women like we're peers?    I realized, with some horror, that she is about ten years younger than I am.   

Throughout my tirade she smiled patiently, nodding her head on occasion, waiting me out.   She's used to it, just like I was.    I know she's thinking the same thing I was when this happened to me:    whatever, lady. 

I stop myself, and leaf through my Us magazine for a minute or two, sheepish.   Finally, I ask what I wish other women would have asked me:  "How are you feeling?   Are you excited?   Nervous?  Have you started buying baby stuff yet?  Are you registered anywhere?"

She smiles openly, and starts chatting away about how she isn't getting morning sickness, she wished she would start showing, she doesn't feel like she has that pregnant glow.    She talks about the nursery they are preparing, the little onesies and booties she can't stop buying.    She isn't thinking about the actually giving birth part, yet, she is wallowing in the warmth of expecting, of becoming.     She is radiant.

"Congratulations," I say, and I mean it.    And then, of course, I say it:

"It's such a magical time."

Nano-Nano Technology

I'm sitting here trying to watch the Super Bowl. I so do not care about the Super Bowl. I just don't want to be left out of the buzz about the commercials, like I was last year. Everywhere I went people were laughing knowingly with each other, like the world had experienced one big inside joke and I missed out. So I'm watching the commercials, dammit. I want to fit in. I really do.

I have to come clean, though, and admit that I don't understand half of what is going on on any given day. I'm not hip. Do they still say hip?

Confession #1: I don't know how to text. I've never texted (okay, once I did, under duress, and it took me half an hour to type one sentence). Occasionally one of my friends will forget I live in the dark ages and will send me a text. My phone makes this strange beeping sound, and words - WORDS! - appear on the screen. I run around a lot flapping my arms in excitement, but I don't know how to text them back. Even if I did know how to text, I don't know the 'code', or the 'jargon' or whatever the hell it's called. Until about three months ago I honestly thought BFF meant something really, really dirty. And I thought FML meant something sweet and nice. See? I'm a lost cause. If you had to Google FML to figure out what it means - call me. We can start a support group.

Confession #2: I don't know what Bluetooth means. I know it's something cool, important people have which makes me want some Bluetooth, just on principle, but I have no idea what it is.

Confession #3: While we're on the topic of technology, please don't make me talk about computers, ever. I went out to research laptops recently. A kid literally one-third my age was asking me how many 'gigs' I wanted, and if I was interested in 'hyperweave' technology. "Gigs, yeah, gigs. Cool. Yeah, get me some of those," I stammered. "I basically just need it for typing," I admitted. "Do people still call it typing?" He looked at me like I had lost my mind, so I tried to cover with a little humor. "Can I listen to albums on it?" "Is it compatible with my hearing aid?" He didn't laugh, but he did speak a little louder.

Confession #4: I don't watch LOST. I've never seen it, because it's premise is based on a plane crash, and that is all I need to know about it. I don't do plane crashes. Speaking of television, I've never seen 'Glee', or 'Heroes', or '30 Rock'. Since we're being honest, here - want to know my favorite show that isn't Celebrity Rehab? Dancing With The Stars. Go ahead - de-friend me or unfollow or do whatever it is you have to do. I just can't pretend anymore.

Confession #5: Twitter makes me nervous. I feel such pressure. 140 characters or less? Seriously? Also, I don't get enough validation on Twitter. I put some little 140-character-or-less message out into Twitterdom, and then I refresh over and over like a junkie wondering if anyone will reply. Did I do it right? Is anyone out there? At least on Facebook people freaking answer me. I am way too needy for Twitter. I'm Tweedy. If you want to keep me from the depths of humiliation and despair give a little shout-out (do they still say shout-out?) to @onecraftyellie. Who knows, the life you save may be mine.

But all is not lost. I can rock Facebook like nobody's business. I finally know what people are talking about when they say "there's an app for that". I will occasionally say "FAIL" or "WIN". Besides, I read somewhere that Mood Rings and Lava Lamps are making a comeback. So I just need to sit tight. I was way cool in the seventies.

Nano-nano.