So far this month, two people are mad at me -- wait, maybe
three. Perhaps even you?
Surprisingly, I'm okay with that. In my advancing age I've
decided to switch from a lifetime of Nice Girl to an occasional Mean Girl.
Oh, you won't find me tripping the feeble, or hurling insults at
strangers, just that I may do something that makes you mad -- like acting
haughty or telling you no -- and, I
can live with that.
This recent decision is so
liberating! It all began in discussions with several acquaintances and I
was not able to satisfy either with my No,
can't do response.
While my repeated No eventually
terminated the dialogues, it didn't stop my brain from simmering. Because of my
decades of being nice, polite, and diffident, I couldn't leave the issues as
settled. Instead, I obsessed about my dissenting and anticipated a night of
tossing.
It was then the refreshing idea slipped in among my turbulent
thoughts: It's okay for someone to not like me, or to be mad at me; I will
survive.
And with that light bulb moment, I felt unburdened, and knew
I could then sleep peacefully.
Of course, this liberating notion required a bit of
research: When did my intent of being Nice Girl begin? So while visions of
avengers skipped on by without pausing, calendar years flipped backwards until
I reached childhood.
I see pre-teen me posing in front of a three-way mirror in a
department store circa 1950. Mother is seated on a cushion surveying the outfit
I am sampling. "You look fine," she says, responding to my dour
expression.
I dearly love this beautiful woman who is scrutinizing my
fashion show. With her upswept hairdo, blue eyes, Max Factor red lipstick, and
beauty queen shape, she resembles a film star. She is adorned with costume
jewelry, a sweater I wish had a higher neckline, a slim skirt, and high heels
she insists on despite the resulting bunions.
The scene in this department store is familiar: My mother
selects my clothes. As usual, I button my lip about my hatred of her choices
because I believe my tie to her so fragile that I dare not oppose. "If you
want me to get it," I say about each unappealing ensemble, "let's do
it."
So Nice Daughter continued until Mother died. She left this
earth without ever learning of my loathing of the bulky winter storm coat, the
school shoes with thick heels, or the faux cashmere sweaters that made my skin
itch. I can live with that; she didn't deserve to ever meet Mean Girl.
Nice Girl was also Nice Student; first to raise her hand,
turn in her perfect penmanship paper, and volunteer to erase the black board.
That's why the unpleasant time in the assembly hall still reproduces darkly
whenever I try to recall my eight years at Lafayette Elementary.
"I can't see the stage," I said to my chum on my
left as I tapped the stiff cotton of her blouse. "Can I try on your
glasses?"
After Sandy handed them to me and I placed them atop my nose
and ears, I let out, "Wow, I can even see the buckles on their
shoes."
"Elaine, stop talking or you'll have to leave the
assembly," said Miss Lowe, her finger touching her lips for emphasis.
This had never happened to Nice Girl! I removed my friend's
glasses, handed them to her, and used my small arm to wipe tears. I was
mortified. In my childish mind, that incident dumped me into the group of bad
kids, those who would be sent to the principal's office.
I had made the teacher I adored mad at me, and that incident
must've seeped into my brain and stuck there as if it were chewed gum on the
bottom of an unlucky shoe.
History reveals that my desire to prevent anyone's
displeasure went beyond those I care about. I see now that it protected
everyone from Mean Girl, like an insurance policy that promises full coverage
even in the event of flood or earthquake.
As I look back on these petty examples of how important it
was for me to be Nice, I wonder how off base I had been. Perhaps Mother
would've taken my view, considered it, and said, "Oh, I never realized
that. Of course, you can choose what you like."
And maybe Miss Lowe, if she had known how her simple
shushing had devastated me and left a lifelong stain, would've pulled me aside
and said something like, "I know this was not your usual behavior. You're
still my star pupil."
No matter. You've
been warned: Watch out for Mean Girl.