Leslie Edwards

Cliquing My Heels at 40

You know what I loved most about high school? Cliques. I found nothing more exhilarating then trying to bust through the frozen wall of some exclusive little group of teenagers who were honor bound to either flat out hate me or simply pretend I didn’t exist. Both types had their own special skill sets which I envied and aspired to. I admired the ones that pretended I wasn’t there because how could they do that unless they were great actors? It’s very difficult to pretend that hard. People in Hollywood get paid a lot of money to do that. I also looked up to the clique which seemed to so artfully hate me. How could I not be in awe of their witty rejoinders to my idiotic greetings. My clumsy attempts at socializing – doing such nerdy things like smiling and saying “hi” -- were swiftly and correctly answered with such classic responses as, “get away you little freak!”

I mean, who doesn’t like a good challenge? Now, I know that it looked an awful lot like crying when I walked away with my face red and my eyes all swollen and moist, but it wasn’t. That was my own special technique – my game plan. I obviously won the challenge because next thing you knew, they were laughing. I had them all in stitches! Ha! Lordy, lordy. I’m slapping my knee and snorting milk out of my nose this very minute just recalling those wonderful days.

I used to get melancholy thinking about the fact that soon we’d all grow up and those days would be over. I never realized that it didn’t have to be over. You know the phrase, fifty is the new forty? Well, I’ve discovered that forty is the new fifteen.

I’ve probably worked at over a hundred temp jobs in my life. My favorite place in these offices has always been the lunch room. The lunch room in any corporate office is a mini-sized version of the cafeteria we had in high school. It’s a great place to be in during hot weather because as soon as you walk in to the chattering huddle of middle-aged ex-teenagers, the temperature drops to below freezing, thus cooling one’s self off instantaneously. Sometimes, just before the bubbly chatter turns to total silence, I get a chance to hear the last bit of conversation, which usually goes something like this:

“Who’s she?”

“I dunno. Some temp chick.”

It’s so nice to know that I’ve been given an actual title. And so soon! Not everyone has a title you know. I want those who keep giving me one to know that they are greatly appreciated.

I used to drink too much. And so one day I thought drunkenly to myself, “Drunk Self, you know what sounds like a good idea? Alcoholics Anonymous”. In AA, there are some randomly odd people who offer their help, kindness, and phone number to anyone who needs it. They were weird -- you know, all helpful and shit. I didn’t know what to do with them. The best part about AA was the rest of the people who squared off into little AA cliques at every meeting. There are the Dogmatists – the ones who respond to any quip with a glare and the verbal warning “No cross-talking!” There are the Gutter Addicts who are always one-upping someone who they feel hasn’t defiled themselves nearly enough to even qualify as a member of AA. There are the Housewife Tipplers who would never sneer at the Gutter Addicts (out of fear), but enjoy their sly sidelong glances at non-housewife, single, childless drunks such as myself. And then there is the Humorless Lesbians Group (a sub-sect of the Dogmatists) who feel that straight girls and men – gay or straight – have no right to live, much less participate in their AA meeting.

The downside of going to AA was that I stopped drinking so much. God, I used to be so much fun in those final moments just before I threw up and passed out on the floor. The upside was that, except for the no alcohol part, the social transition from Real Life to AA Life was practically seamless. By the way, after reading this, one of my favorite dogmatists will email me to remind me that one doesn’t go to AA to stop drinking so much. But that’s okay. I’m used to pretty much getting everything wrong.

Recently I tried a renewed attempt at busting through the wall of the writers cliques. They have them in every city, town and suburb in the world. The most popular ex-teenagers in these groups tend to be, as they refer to themselves, the “alternative” writers. They read their shi... I mean, their powerful unpredictable prose at every reading in town. They write things that are too meaningful for mere mortals to understand, and they recite them with lots of pauses like, “the turgid-bellied... waters of my... spine became Snoopy... feet.” They are geniuses, and I am jealous of them. And they know this.

I really could go on, but I won’t. The brick wall upon which I keep bashing my head is starting to crumble. But I’ll tell you something. I was afraid that as I got older, I would have to resort to memories in order to feel young again. I mean, who knew that people in their 40’s could be so reminiscent of those teenagers you and I knew in high school?

Gee, I wonder if it means that creation theory is a fact. At the very least, it disproves evolution.

February 21, 2008 12:51 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | Add Comment