The Shame and the Pleasure

Self-expression is the choice between satisfying the stirrings of my emotional conscience and burning bridges. Good behavior makes me feel like a soloist of a symphony with an indifferent, but hostile audience. Play flawlessly and the audience is silent, but hit a wrong note and receive hisses and jeers.

I don’t want to be difficult, disagreeable or MEAN, but I can be. I don’t want to be different for the sake of being unique, such contrivances are pedestrian antics of a lost soul. I’m no longer lost, but I haven’t reached my destination either. But I am/can be different because we cannot ALL BE THE SAME. In my circle of reality, I am the lone femme–single, never married and childless. 

I am an oxymoron moving within the flow of life. I go unnoticed and then a malfunction of that flow showcases my existence. I’m like the little red dot on the bull’s-eye, the prized goal of social hunters looking to practice their marksmanship. 

That day at another bar-be-cue at a married with kids friend’s house where the other guests were also married with kids I turned into that red target when a long-lost (too bad she didn’t stay lost) Frenemy spotted me chomping on fried cheese. In the past, the polite hostility Frenemy and I regarded each other for the sake of civility among the throng displayed a “certain” social grace. It was during these moments that I truly felt mature and evolved in curbing my utmost desire to sock her right in her pie hole.

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I hoped we’d acknowledge each other with a friendly and fake nod and be on with it, but Frenemy sat down beside me for a chat disturbing me and my cheese as she asked the usual questions: married? No. kids? No. boyfriend? No. She proceeded in the fashion of the benevolent advisor to criticize me. She adjusted her skinny ass on the couch and delivered another round of assaulting remarks that went something like this:

Frenemy: I don’t know anybody in your situation.

Me: Situation?

Frenemy: You know being a spinster and childless.

**I didn’t know people still used the word spinster, but this piece of cervix before me did.  

Frenemy: Why do you think your relationships never worked out? 

Me: I don’t know.

Frenemy:  You’re in denial. Have you thought of therapy?

Me: I’d rather spend my money on shoes and handbags, but I guess mental health is also important.

**Frenemy didn’t laugh at the joke and instead “chick checked” me with condescending eyeballs that I wanted to gauge out with my thumbs. 

Frenemy: Marriage isn’t for the faint of heart or for the giveruppers.

Me: I haven’t given up.

Frenemy The older you get the slimmer the chances. Are you okay with being alone?

Me: Sure.

Frenemy: I know this guy that I could set you up with. He’s divorced; not the greatest catch, but I think you guys would make a good couple.

Me: Oh?

BMW: He’s not a loser. Just not successful like my H (her poor husband), but he has a good heart. And he’s not picky.

**Now she was giving me a pity date with a “loser” who wasn’t picky? 

Was I for real in my responses? I haven’t given up? Sure? Oh?  Obviously not. Frenemy was getting her hits and she kept on going. She went on to boast about her happily married life (I wonder if her hubby knows about this) and three wonderful kids and her high power dream job.

Frenemy: I know women can have it all. I’ve got a great career and a family. If you can’t afford therapy you should really think about self-improvement.

*Who said I couldn’t afford therapy? Shoes and purses are my therapy. And can you believe Frenemy got the gall to sneak a self-help insult on me? By this time my temper percolated to the anxious simmer of a crock pot.

Me: I’m not really into that self-help stuff.

BMW: You should be. I’m all about self-improvement How do you think I plan to move up in my job?

Me: By sniffing the stink of your boss’ ass without having to earn it while you’re being poked and prodded on all fours?

** I said with a big smile.

Frenemy gasped and turned white; her lips tightened into the sneer of a Cruella de Vil, but all she could come up with was:

Frenemy: I’m not going to dignify that statement with a response.

Me: Oh I’m sorry. You probably don’t like being on all fours with those knobby knees and all.

Frenemy stood up and left. Then I realized we had an audience (thankfully all the kids were outside–the last thing I needed was a kid asking their mommy about what being poked and prodded meant). Some were astonished and some looked like they enjoyed the show. But moments later the guilt and the shame crept in. I could have taken the high road and ignored her insults; yet, I went low with my big mouth.

To top it off, I wasn’t even sure on the accuracy of my remarks. I mean … she looked like a brown-noser, but I couldn’t really be certain if she’d truly sniffed ass at work. And maybe she didn’t like getting reamed from the back and preferred the missionary position although there’s nothing “Mother Theresaish” about Frenemy’s disposition. I wanted to apologize and tell her that she probably did earn her way to the top through her sheet merit as an expert back stabber (which I know from experience). But by the time I mustered the courage to apologize she had left the party.

I had to admit that telling her what I thought felt orgasmic. I”m sure she went home to her great big house and the next morning, she’ll go to her great big job with knee pads on. I truly hope she gets what she deserves in life.

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© 2011 Lafemmeroar