Female friendships are pretty complicated. Enough that I don’t expand on them too often. It’s not a favorite topic of mine by any stretch. I suppose it’s that part of me that feels completely dysfunctional when it comes to friendships. The sensitive parts of me that feel like I’m just too much, always. I am the person who asks if I did something wrong and I make nice when things feel uneasy and I endlessly wonder about the state of me in the greater scheme of a relationship.
I look at images on social media of these rather large groups of females and wonder what went wrong when I was put together. How was my DNA wound that I can’t seem to find my way to that thing they have?
There are so many different elements to this complicated business, but what comes to mind most clearly is a tunic I wanted years ago. Yes, a tunic. I was perusing online and fell head over heels for this sparkly number. It looked so glamorous in the photo. The model in the image was somewhat average in build (a rarity in fashion) and so, I convinced myself that I would look half decent in it. The problem: it was a fucking fortune. Outrageous.
So, I saved. I worked my ass off (two jobs, thank you very much) and put money aside until I was in a position to buy this magical tunic. Many moons and two weeks later and it arrives. I could barely stand the excitement when I received notification on my phone whilst at work. I distinctly remember going home and ripping open the package.
It. Was. Fucking. Awful.
Gross.
Too big but too short. Too sparkly in a way that was almost tacky and yet, entirely forgettable. An unforgiving tie waist and also, shapeless. Awful. I did a double take. It is even possible that the item of clothing I had fallen so deeply for, was this piece of garbage? Sure. Yes. It was.
I hung onto it for a week or so. I told myself that maybe I’d get it altered. Maybe I just needed to sleep on it. It haunted me. I knew I would get my money back. I wasn’t worried about that. I was pissed that I had gotten so attached and misjudged so egregiously. I had become so enamored of the idea of a thing, that I was having trouble accepting the reality. Eventually, I gave up and mailed it back.
Mother effing restocking fee. Can you believe that? I was so pissed. I mean, I got my money back but something about that small fee to “restock” pissed me off. Big time. It was insult on top of injury. I was mad at myself that I had expended so much energy and hope on this damn tunic and now I was losing money either way. Very silly in retrospect, but at the time, I was pissed off.
What does any of this have to do with groups of female friends? Well, my experience with them has always been kind of similar to tunic-gate. I crave and desire and work to get in and then, grave disappointment. An ill-fitting, too sparkly, too mini, scrap of overpriced fabric. Cattiness and cliques and all the drama my poor heart can’t handle. I debate whether or not I should back out the door given the investment that I’ve made, but also, it’s too late. I’m in too deep. Of course, I move to walk away, but there’s a part of my forever left behind. I’m scarred from the experience.
This sounds very dramatic, but it’s true. So true, that I’ve often chastised myself for not being a human who is more chill about these things. If ONLY I could just go with the flow more. If ONLY I could just fucking relax, things wouldn’t be so complicated. I too could wear neutral toned clothing and pose in a pumpkin patch, or Boomerang matching stemless wine glasses or crush together to all fit into the requisite bathroom selfie. With perfect lighting, always.
I can’t though. I’m not built that way. I’m intense and independent and somewhat secretive and incredibly delicate. I long to move beyond slights with ease, but I struggle. I want to talk about it. Fix it. Sniff out the issue and get to the bottom of it all. Start fresh, start anew.
Don’t get me wrong, as I am absolutely not calling women who are part of larger friend groups, simpletons. That’s not a true statement and also, that’s not me. I’m not usually inclined to make sweeping generalizations. I think there’s likely some priority analysis that occurs. Not like someone sits down and makes a pros and cons list. Nah. I’m thinking of something far less formal. I’m just imagining that beat where you are like ‘why the fuck do I still talk to these people?!’ and you lie to yourself quickly and tell yourself that the benefit of history/togetherness/solidarity outweighs all the things that get under your skin. You know, you pull a ‘it’s fine’ and call it a day.
I’m an unwilling devotee of the ‘it’s fine’ but I’m pretty incapable of doing it when it comes to my friendships. The entire notion gets caught in my throat and then jammed up around my heart, and don’t even get me started on my belly. I just…can’t. I try for a period of time and then it always catches up with me. I get that itch of frustration. I feel pissed off and hurt and no matter how many times I tell myself that I’M FINE, I know that I’m not. Not really.
I’m comfortable chilling with myself and living a quieter life all around, but being in a group and feeling left out, or lonely? That fucking sucks. Big time. And if I’m completely honest, it’s that awareness that makes me inclined to not even try. Why bother? I know the outcome. I’m eventually going to be odd woman out, so why try? Better to just own who I am and what I need.
Yes, but also, it sucks. I feel fucked up. I feel irreparably broken. I feel mad at myself that I can’t figure it out. I want the #besties experience, don’t I? Probably not. I never really have, and I don’t think I do now. The saddest part of this intro is that the reason I long for the hashtag is the same reason I wanted that fucking tunic. Good on paper.
More soon….
x
L.
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