I have learned that there is safety in numbers.
And it’s not just safety from abductors and those scary mall kiosk sales people, but most importantly social safety. Social safety is crucial when hanging out with a group of females. You NEVER want to be the one who strays from the group…even for a second.
If you’re out and have to use the restroom, you bring one or all. Increasing the number of people you bring along with you, lowers your chances of them talking behind your back once you’re gone.
And more often than not, that conversation will be negative. One of two scenarios will play out if you should decide to lone ranger it away from the group.
1) (Best case scenario) The group won’t mention you at all. They will merely watch you walk away and then make some silent judgment about you.
or
2) They will immediately begin negatively talking about you.
I was reminded of this female phenomenon while at the Mall of America last Tuesday night. I was walking parallel, but a little behind four women who appeared to be in their early 20’s. I kept a bit of distance between myself and them in order to secretly observe them.
They were laughing loudly and would occasionally give other females walking past full body scans with their eyes. As they judged those in front of them, I was judging them from the side. I kept following them. I wasn’t particularly proud to be stalking a group of cackling young women who I assumed were on their way to Wet Seal, but I had already committed and there seemed to be no going back.
Stalking them took me back to when I was in my early 20’s. I hated that time in my life because I was what can best be described as – the worst. I was an insecure mess who projected those feelings onto those around me. I was an awkward, emotional, gossipy know-it-all who drank too much. When I think back to those years, the Tegan and Sara song, “You wouldn’t like me” comes to mind.
Had my life been a television show at that time, the opening credits would have been me walking down the street sobbing while the song played:
“There’s a war inside of me
Do I cause new heartbreak to write a new broken song
Do I push it down or let it run me right into the wind
And I- I feel like I wouldn’t like me if I met me
Well I can’t stop talking for fear of listening to unwelcome sound
And you haven’t called me in weeks and honestly it’s bringing me down
Oh I- I feel like I wouldn’t like me if I met me
I- I feel like you wouldn’t like me if you met me.”
When the group stopped and sat at a table in the food court, I sat at the table next to them. I looked down at my phone in attempt to hide the fact that I was eavesdropping. One of the girls strayed from the pack and into the Chipotle. It took only a few seconds for them to begin talking about her.
“Can we just for a second talk about how Emma can’t go to Vegas because she can’t seem to get her sh*t together,” stated the tallest, blondest and tannest of the group.
Based on her stature and initiation of the trash-talking, I quickly came to the conclusion that she was the leader. The other girls nodded their heads in agreement and responded with, “I know. She’s a mess.” The leader continued, “I mean one DUI is normal, but two? That’s just gross.”
Her minions again agreed. I felt like I was watching an episode of MTV’s Daria. It was as if I was watching the real life characters of Quinn, Tiffany and infamous, Sandi bad-mouth Stacey, their “friend” and fellow Fashion Club member.
“And now she’s eating again!?! That’s the last thing she should be doing.”
The girls again agreed with the leader as I texted myself their conversation. I justified my spying by telling myself that I was simply doing research for work. I needed to observe, judge, record and then write in my column about what I had just heard. It was my comedic duty.
As soon as Emma returned to the table, the girls invited her back into the group and continued on as if nothing was ever said.
“Your burrito bowl smells delicious,” the leader said as they watched Emma eat.
I would like to think that as we grow older, women grow out of this behavior, but we don’t. As we age, we just become better at it. It becomes an art form. A ballet of words as we dance across the stage of passive aggressive perfection. As we get older we aren’t as blunt or obvious.
Before we say anything, we begin with a seemingly nice introductory phrase such as, “I’m not judging her, but” and “I’m only saying this out of love” or my favorite, “I’m not trying to be mean, but.” Whenever a sentence begins with any of these phrases, you can be sure that something negative or mean is about to follow.
I was recently in a group of women in their 40’s and 50’s who began talking about a “friend” once she left the room. As soon as the door closed, one of the women said, “I’m not trying to be mean, but her butt looks like it’s eating her pants. She just needs to wear clothes that suit her body.”
Translation: She’s fat. I’m not as fat. And calling her out for looking fat makes me feel better about crushing an entire bag of sour cream and onion chips while watching “The Bachelor” last night.
I wish I could tell you that I stood up and said, “That’s not nice! She’s your friend. You should be ashamed of yourself for saying such an awful thing,” but I didn’t. I just sat there and uncomfortably smiled. These women are older and I haven’t had the best track record with older chicks. And there is only one person to blame for this – Beth and her “pool.”
It was the summer of 1992. I was 12 years old and a member of the Parkway Angels softball team. I was the youngest player on the team. All of the other girls were two to three years older than me. I desperately wanted to fit in with them. The oldest, coolest and tannest of the group, Beth walked over to me after our last game of the season.
Everyone was in a good mood because we had just beat the Panthers. The Panthers were the number one team in our three team league. The Angels and the Panthers had a long-standing rivalry that dated all the way back to 1990. The third team in our league – The Hornets lost every game. If you were picked to be on the Hornets, you cried and then tried to fake mono so that you could sit out until the next draft.
As Beth walked toward me, the rest of the girls followed. She asked me if I wanted to play a “really fun game” with her. She had ignored me all season and now she was talking to me. I couldn’t believe it. So of course I agreed to play the game. She asked me to hold out my hand with my palm facing up.
She then said, “This is your house” as she outlined a box on my palm with her finger. She then asked a series of questions like where I would like my kitchen, living room, bathroom and bedroom. With my free hand, I pointed to where within the box I would like all these rooms to be.
She used her finger to outline small circles for each imaginary room. Finally she asked, “Where would you like your swimming pool?” I paused and then pointed to the back of the imaginary house that she built on my hand. She smiled at me. I still couldn’t believe she was talking to me and now she was smiling. Be still my wannabe popular heart!
I smiled back and that’s when she spit on the spot where my imaginary pool was supposed to go. And it wasn’t just girl spit. It was softball player spit. Thick, nasty and from her nasal cavity. Beth and the other girls laughed and then walked away as I stood there alone with the most popular girl’s spit on my hand. It’s a moment I will never forget and one that shaped the way I interact with “the older girls.”
When the “butt-eating her pants” woman returned, the group welcomed her back as if nothing had happened. Feeling uncomfortable, I sat on my hands for protection. The conversation switched to a “friend” of theirs who was having an affair with a married man. I continued to smile and was the last one to leave the group that night.
