A couple weeks ago, I woke up to an unexpected Facebook message. It was from a girl named Cara -- a former BFF, one I'd spent a lot of time with back in the early 1990s, but who I hadn't seen or spoken to since save for one awkward run-in at my hometown bar last Christmas.
Hearing from her was a surprise.
The message was an even bigger one.
"I never got to say this because of how things ended between us," it said, "and I'm not sure this is even why, but: I'm sorry if I hurt you by talking to Alina about you making out with Tom Fanning in my room. At that age, I wasn't thinking about how hurtful that can be to have your friends talking behind your back, especially about chastity-related topics."
Of course, this type of message -- in and of itself -- isn't exactly uncommon. Thanks to Facebook, the internet is now flooded with stories from bullied teenagers who grew up to receive just this sort of "I'm sorry" from the mean girl who ruined their lives. (Not, I should add, that Cara ruined my life. But the aforementioned incident did really, reeeeeally hurt my feelings, for reasons I will explain in just a second.)
And I know what you're thinking -- that this was a very adult and perfectly legitimate thing to say to the teenage whore who destroyed your friendship by not only making out with a boy, but defiling your childhood bedroom in the process.
And if that teenage whore had any fucking decency, she'd respond with an apology of her own for the horrible, scandalous crime that she perpetrated.
The problem is, I wasn't sorry.
And also, I wasn't a whore.
Because here's the thing: as described, this whole event sounds like a horrific betrayal of the bonds of girly friendship. You're probably thinking that sure, it was wrong of her to talk about me behind my back, but it was waaaay wronger of me to get busy with a dude in her bedroom. I bet that you've even conjured a mental image of me as a young teenager, surreptitiously sneaking upstairs to not only engage in a nasty, disgusting makeout, but to do it on my friend's bed.
Shameful!
Which, of course, is why this message pissed me off. Because what actually happened was this: I was 13, he was 15, we were both attendees at a Halloween party, and my parents were on their way to pick me up. And when I went upstairs to get my coat from Cara's bedroom, he snuck up after me, pushed me gently against the door-frame, and kissed me.
For about three seconds.
I mean, for the love of God, it wasn't even with TONGUE.
And as exciting as it was at the time -- it was the first time that a boy had ever spontaneously kissed me -- it definitely didn't make up for the withering glare that I got from Cara as I exited her house. Or for the ensuing freeze-out by my girlfriends, who took this incident, along with my general willingness to kiss boys, as evidence that I was a wanton slut who couldn't be trusted.
Although that probably would have happened anyway, since I'd pretty much been boy-crazy from birth while my friends were the least-hormonal group of adolescents ever to walk the earth, and our conversations were starting to go like this:
Them: You're, like, obsessed with boys. It's weird.
Me: Whatever, it's not like I get why you guys are so into horses, either.
(Note: I now realize that "being into horses" is a sort of teenage girl's gateway drug to "being into dudes". Which within the confines of this metaphor would make me that person who walks into a party, waves away the bong, and just dives headlong into a pile of cocaine.)
Of course, that was fifteen years ago. And as much as it sucked at the time, it's not like I've thought about it at all since, say, 1996. But now, faced with this message, I couldn't help thinking of my 13 year-old self -- lurking back there in the past, feeling hurt and confused, and eventually learning that her friends had spent a whole slumber party weekend talking about what a whore she was.
And so, on her behalf, I did not apologize.
Instead, I thanked her for writing, and then I added this:
"I don't think it's any mystery why we all grew apart -- from what I remember, I was in the thick of the teenage boy-crazies and you guys weren't similarly afflicted. I'm sure I was unbelievably irritating to you, and for my part... well, you know, obviously it was hard not to notice that you all thought I was an attention-seeking slut."
(And then, in an attempt to not seem bitter, I added a "not that this really matters, seeing as we're all almost 30", and told her that she should feel free to look me up if she was ever in New York.)
Of course, she hasn't written back, and since it's been a few weeks, I'm guessing she's not going to. And maybe that's my fault. Maybe I should have just sucked it up, given her the return apology she was probably looking for, and been more of a grownup about it.
But I'm not gonna lie: standing up for myself, even if it was a version of myself that hasn't existed for more than a decade, felt pretty goddamn good.
And it's not like we would have been friends again, anyway.
I'm pretty sure she's still really into horses.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Monday, September 13, 2010
Rash decisions.
The rash has faded.
The residual trauma has not.
When another couple days passed without any improvement, I threw on my largest pair of sunglasses and went to the dermatologist. Not because the sunglasses did anything to cover the raging rash, which was plastered all over my chin and neck like a beard made out of Awful, but because they covered enough of the top part of my face that I was pretty sure I wouldn't be recognized if I happened to pass someone I knew on the street.
Or, worse, recognized later in life as "that girl who was walking around covered in pustules."
As previously noted, there just aren't that many places you can go when you're sporting a faceful of Throbbing Red Pustules of Death. At a distance of a few yards, people just look at you with a mixture of pity and horrified fixation while they try to figure out what the hell is wrong with you; at a distance of ten feet or less, people glare at you for having the nerve to leave the house while covered in spots. On the subway, I kept having to fight the urge to shout at my fellow passengers, "I'm SORRY! If it were not absolutely necessary, I swear that I would not be out in public!"
I have also never been more grateful that I don't have a job that requires me to leave the house.
Needless to say, after my prior experience, I was headed to the dermatologist in search of some serious doctoring. The only thing worse than waking up covered in mysterious pustules is seeing a doctor who not only has no idea what they are, and not only has never heard of the thing you think they are, but doesn't even attempt to figure it out. I mean, fuck. Isn't there something in the Hippocratic Oath about this? First, do no harm; second, do not shrug dumbly at patients who present with facial pustules? Between the rash itself and my doctor's total cluelessness about it, after a few days, I was basically convinced that I was going to look like this forever -- or if not, at least emerge from the experience horribly scarred -- and was on an hourly schedule of a) crying, or b) freaking out and calling my mom, after which I would, c) cry some more.
And so I ended up in the very swank office of a very swank dermatologist -- who will be hereafter known as Dr. Dermy Hotness, because daaaaaaaamn -- which is one of the places you can safely go while covered in the Throbbing Red Pustules of Death, and where I waited anxiously for someone to identify the rash for what it was, and also possibly to offer me some ice cream and a hug and tell me that everything was going to be okay.
Instead, Dr. Dermy Hotness swooped in, introduced himself, and said, "Hot tub folliculitis? Hmm... no, no. I think what you've got is insect bites. Spiders, maybe."
Because apparently, the third part of the Hippocratic Oath involves a total willingness to believe that the average human being loves to walk around obliviously wearing a beard made out of spiders.
"Are you sure about that?" I said.
"Well, the thing is," said the doctor, "we usually see hot tub folliculitis on other parts of the body."
"I have it on other parts," I said, hopefully pointing to some spots on my shoulders, hips, and thighs. Dr. Dermy Hotness gave me a pleasant but tight-lipped smile. He wasn't buying it.
It was time to pull out the big guns.
I leaned forward and hissed, "I have it on my ass."
Dr. Dermy Hotness perked up.
"You do?"
"Yes."
"Well, I should probably take a look at that," he said.
"I was really hoping to avoid this," I said.
Of course, I know what you're thinking. So what if the hot dermatologist had to look at your ass pustules? And so what if he took scrapings of them with a scalpel? And so what if he had to scrape, like, TEN OF THEM because none of them were oozy enough to get a sample? It's not like anyone else would ever know about it!
And to you I say, HAHAHAHAHAHAHA.
Because once this particular wrinkle had been uncovered (not that my ass is wrinkled, oh GOD, could this get any worse?!), there was no re-covering it. The horrible fact of my butt rash hung in the air for the rest of the appointment, as the word "buttocks" was bandied about far more than could have possibly been necessary.
"So, about those spots on your BUTTOCKS," said Dr. Dermy Hotness. "We've got the scrapings from your BUTTOCKS, and we'll send them out for analysis -- Lisa, you've got those BUTTOCKS samples, right? From the BUTTOCKS? -- Right, and in the meantime, you'll want to take this BUTTOCKS cream for the BUTTOCKS, which you can also use on your face, but you can definitely use it on your BUTTOCKS. And if your BUTTOCKS don't improve, please BUTTOCKS us and we'll BUTTOCKS your BUTTOCKS with BUTTOCKS. Have a nice BUTTOCKS!"
And then he handed me a prescription for some steroid cream, which read -- you guessed it -- "Apply twice a day to BUTTOCKS and face."
Of course, that's all in the past now. The pustules are gone, the redness has faded, and as unpleasant as the whole experience was, at least I don't have any scars.
Which is probably more than I can say for any fellow pharmacy shoppers who happened to be nearby when I presented my evidently pustule-covered self at the pickup window, and the pharmacist -- who had never previously given any indication of being a sadistic bastard -- handed me a tube of cream and shouted, "This one is for your BUTTOCKS! And also, your FACE!"
Sorry, guys. If it had not been absolutely necessary, I swear I would not have been out in public.
The residual trauma has not.
When another couple days passed without any improvement, I threw on my largest pair of sunglasses and went to the dermatologist. Not because the sunglasses did anything to cover the raging rash, which was plastered all over my chin and neck like a beard made out of Awful, but because they covered enough of the top part of my face that I was pretty sure I wouldn't be recognized if I happened to pass someone I knew on the street.
Or, worse, recognized later in life as "that girl who was walking around covered in pustules."
As previously noted, there just aren't that many places you can go when you're sporting a faceful of Throbbing Red Pustules of Death. At a distance of a few yards, people just look at you with a mixture of pity and horrified fixation while they try to figure out what the hell is wrong with you; at a distance of ten feet or less, people glare at you for having the nerve to leave the house while covered in spots. On the subway, I kept having to fight the urge to shout at my fellow passengers, "I'm SORRY! If it were not absolutely necessary, I swear that I would not be out in public!"
I have also never been more grateful that I don't have a job that requires me to leave the house.
Needless to say, after my prior experience, I was headed to the dermatologist in search of some serious doctoring. The only thing worse than waking up covered in mysterious pustules is seeing a doctor who not only has no idea what they are, and not only has never heard of the thing you think they are, but doesn't even attempt to figure it out. I mean, fuck. Isn't there something in the Hippocratic Oath about this? First, do no harm; second, do not shrug dumbly at patients who present with facial pustules? Between the rash itself and my doctor's total cluelessness about it, after a few days, I was basically convinced that I was going to look like this forever -- or if not, at least emerge from the experience horribly scarred -- and was on an hourly schedule of a) crying, or b) freaking out and calling my mom, after which I would, c) cry some more.
And so I ended up in the very swank office of a very swank dermatologist -- who will be hereafter known as Dr. Dermy Hotness, because daaaaaaaamn -- which is one of the places you can safely go while covered in the Throbbing Red Pustules of Death, and where I waited anxiously for someone to identify the rash for what it was, and also possibly to offer me some ice cream and a hug and tell me that everything was going to be okay.
Instead, Dr. Dermy Hotness swooped in, introduced himself, and said, "Hot tub folliculitis? Hmm... no, no. I think what you've got is insect bites. Spiders, maybe."
Because apparently, the third part of the Hippocratic Oath involves a total willingness to believe that the average human being loves to walk around obliviously wearing a beard made out of spiders.
"Are you sure about that?" I said.
"Well, the thing is," said the doctor, "we usually see hot tub folliculitis on other parts of the body."
"I have it on other parts," I said, hopefully pointing to some spots on my shoulders, hips, and thighs. Dr. Dermy Hotness gave me a pleasant but tight-lipped smile. He wasn't buying it.
It was time to pull out the big guns.
I leaned forward and hissed, "I have it on my ass."
Dr. Dermy Hotness perked up.
"You do?"
"Yes."
"Well, I should probably take a look at that," he said.
"I was really hoping to avoid this," I said.
Of course, I know what you're thinking. So what if the hot dermatologist had to look at your ass pustules? And so what if he took scrapings of them with a scalpel? And so what if he had to scrape, like, TEN OF THEM because none of them were oozy enough to get a sample? It's not like anyone else would ever know about it!
And to you I say, HAHAHAHAHAHAHA.
Because once this particular wrinkle had been uncovered (not that my ass is wrinkled, oh GOD, could this get any worse?!), there was no re-covering it. The horrible fact of my butt rash hung in the air for the rest of the appointment, as the word "buttocks" was bandied about far more than could have possibly been necessary.
"So, about those spots on your BUTTOCKS," said Dr. Dermy Hotness. "We've got the scrapings from your BUTTOCKS, and we'll send them out for analysis -- Lisa, you've got those BUTTOCKS samples, right? From the BUTTOCKS? -- Right, and in the meantime, you'll want to take this BUTTOCKS cream for the BUTTOCKS, which you can also use on your face, but you can definitely use it on your BUTTOCKS. And if your BUTTOCKS don't improve, please BUTTOCKS us and we'll BUTTOCKS your BUTTOCKS with BUTTOCKS. Have a nice BUTTOCKS!"
And then he handed me a prescription for some steroid cream, which read -- you guessed it -- "Apply twice a day to BUTTOCKS and face."
Of course, that's all in the past now. The pustules are gone, the redness has faded, and as unpleasant as the whole experience was, at least I don't have any scars.
Which is probably more than I can say for any fellow pharmacy shoppers who happened to be nearby when I presented my evidently pustule-covered self at the pickup window, and the pharmacist -- who had never previously given any indication of being a sadistic bastard -- handed me a tube of cream and shouted, "This one is for your BUTTOCKS! And also, your FACE!"
Sorry, guys. If it had not been absolutely necessary, I swear I would not have been out in public.
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