Cut It Out, Weirdo.

A little tale of excluding and including myself.

A LITTLE HOUSEKEEPING TO START: I know you’ve been absolutely BESIDE yourself wondering where these essays have been the last two weeks. I’d like to explain that they’ve been in two places. First, I was overwhelmed with the launch of my new membership site that you can now try for a free week HERE . Second, they’ve been behind a wall of writer’s block. I wrote two essays and I hated them so much I deleted them and vowed to never write again! So, to those of you who are paying for a subscription here, please know I have thought about you and felt very guilty! I want to tell you, thanks for your patience. I’ve only ever missed my weekly writing while on maternity leave and don’t plan to make a habit of it. Anyway, here’s me shaking off the dust and enjoying writing to you once more….

I could feel myself staring at her neck.

Lineless. Taut. Silky. A different species, I think.

Just imagine if a dolphin had a neck. Can you see it?

Impulsively, I pet my very human, genetically doomed neck.

My mind flashes back to my grandmother pinching the saggy skin between her thumb and forefinger, pulling at her low-hanging “turkey neck.” So, I guess mine could be another species one day, too.

Would you look at that jawline! It could cut glass. You will find no searches for “jowls” in her browser history. But as of last week, you’ll find it in mine.

Can she see where I’m staring? No. I have sunglasses on. This is fine. Stare away.

But they’re a light tint, so maybe she can. Cut it out, weirdo.

I shift my attention to her designer sunglasses and try to jump back into the stream of conversation. I smile and say hello to yet another couple emerging from breakfast, staking their claim on some lounge chairs. I’m trying to pin myself down to the topic at hand, but the sheer number of friends in this group takes my focus by the hand and runs in the other direction.

I’ve never cemented myself into a pack like the one I’m sitting on the periphery of at this pool—one that has traversed the wildness of their twenties together and is now trickling into their early and mid-thirties.

They’ve partied in beautiful locations, rented apartments together, held each other through heartbreaks and fuck-ups, celebrated new jobs and moves, and are now fully in the weddings-and-babies season of life—all still together.

I admire it. I also envy it. I can’t help but think I made an unforced error, missing out on an essential piece of the human experience. But most of all, I cannot, for the life of me, conceive of it. There are so many of them. How do they find the time to stay connected? The energy? The desire?

My friendship style has always been that of a Great White shark—forever in motion. I glide from group to group, never settling long enough to grow too attached or tired of anyone. Perhaps, I am also driven by the fear of them growing too close or too exhausted of me.

As I sit here watching them, I realize I’ve mistaken movement for safety. Keeping my distance means I’ve never been held in the same way they all hold each other.

Another reason for my lack of friend stability? I have always prioritized my romantic relationships. Blah. Acknowledging this makes me feel weak and pathetic. A “pick me” girl, I believe, is the term for it. When I met Greg, my best friend and I traveled as one. Without question, she’d pick me up for our daily adventure in her beat-up Honda Civic. We’d smoke copious amounts of weed, giggle at nonsense, do yoga in the Mission, and attend as many shows as we could afford.

This went on for years. But after dating Greg for a while, one day, we just stopped talking. It’s been a decade now, and we’ve still never spoken.

Isn’t that kind of nuts?

I saw her for the first time recently—or, at least, I thought I did. She was late for something, running down the sidewalk. Seeing her took my breath away. It was like seeing a ghost. I whispered her name in disbelief and nearly drove off the road. I spent the next few days haunted by our abrupt ending and subsequent silence.

This pattern seems to point to a personality defect. At best, it’s a bit sad.

Maybe I can blame it on my usual suspect? It must be the ADHD! Thanks to my addiction to scrolling, I’ve become aware that object impermanence can make it hard to miss people. Maybe this is why I can just stop talking to someone after being so close to them for so long.

Or maybe I’m just an asshole.

Again, I try to snap myself back into the conversation and join in the laughter of the group sitting in and around this chic pool, surrounded by the Mexican mountains. I have no idea what we’re laughing about, so I only giggle a little. Blend, I tell myself. Don’t make a spectacle of yourself.

This is a constant concern of mine. I sometimes spin in circles after a social event, wondering if I made myself the center of attention and if everyone absolutely hated me for it. I know that when I’m nervous, I perform.

Mmm, that’s a lie. I also just enjoy performing, so it’s not always a case of nerves.

I don’t know if I was fully conscious of this habit until a friend pointed it out in my early twenties. She told me, “You know, we can just hang out. You don’t have to put on a comedy show.”

I think it would have hurt my feelings coming from anyone else, but her personality lacked malice. She was sincerely trying to help me—and, I imagine, trying to get to know me. It was exhausting, trying to be the funny girl all the time. This felt like an invitation to let my guard down. Jokes can aid and abet connection, but they can also keep it from ever getting through the front door.

I hear someone at the pool talking about how we’re all in our early thirties. Impulsively, I blurt out, “Not us!”

Lindsey and I laugh. “I’m 39.”

Lindsey tells them she just turned 40.

Couldn’t they tell by the lines on my neck? The jowls? I guess not. And I’m not sure if the shock I read behind their very cool glasses was because we look so devastatingly young that this information couldn’t possibly be true, or because they think that 40 is ancient.

Of course, I choose the former.

Either way, I log it as more evidence that we are outsiders. Two aunties trying to adjust their crop tops and squeeze in at the kids’ table.

We make our way back to our hotel, shower, and try to find our missing personalities. We’re both exhausted from the festivities the night before and feel devoid of any semblance of fun.

We order a couple of margaritas to our room, hoping to find it in there. Alas, no luck.

It takes most of the wedding and dinner before I feel myself slipping into a state of comfort. Perhaps it’s the margaritas. Perhaps it’s the just-right combination of guests seated at Table 8. Our banter flows easily, and I feel the warmth of being wanted.

The bride and groom wave us all onto the dance floor, and everyone in attendance readily accepts. We’re all bouncing around, and I feel the self-imposed shackles begin to loosen.

You belong.

I roll this thought around in my head, over and over. I let it slide down into my body and out through my movements. I invite this thought to stay with me in each joyous eruption of laughter.

I’m dancing with the bride’s mother.

Nancy is a woman I’ve placed in my mental folder of Mom Icons. She is a woman who is sturdy in herself, who doesn’t waste precious minutes of her life staring at the bright blue light of her phone, hoping for a remedy for jowls. A woman who names her love of attention and revels in it. A woman who belongs wherever she is because she belongs to herself first.

With each swirl around each other, I release a little more tension about what should have been. Or how I could have been…

Instead, I dance with Nance and feel a giddiness for what will be.

Move and meditate with me over on our new home: https://livingroomyoga.co/

I’m really proud of all the work I’ve put into this space and would love for you to check it out. xo