In high school, whenever the whispers of Homecoming began, everything relationship-wise, both with girlfriends and members of the opposite sex, shifted. A few weeks, even months before the dance, everyone would start scoping the scene and asked the following questions: Who did I like? Who did I have the potential to like? Who liked me? Who were the old faithfuls, the guy friends who would come through in a pinch. The list would be mentally prioritized by a complex system that involved the guys interest in me and other girl’s interest in him. Oh, and his heighth. Although this equation somehow didn’t work with my shorter-than-me Prom date.
Then, the first girl would get asked in some crazy way, and the game was on. In my school, guys didn’t just ASK, they flew a banner on the back of an airplane or decorated their date’s room or sent a singing telegram. And I’d go on hyper-alert, never sure when I’d find flowers on my desk or a sign in my bedroom.
My junior year, it felt like everyone was getting asked but me. Some of my friends had the security of boyfriends, some the security of being incredible flirts. I remember one friend got a massive boquet from the boy I thought might ask me in the middle of English. And I cried and pretended it was for another lame reason. I was so jealous of all the girls who didn’t even have to work at it! Who always had a date, and sometimes has multiple suitors. I started crossing names off my list, wondering how much I’d have to pay my brother to take me. I thought my turn would never come.
Well, it did. I went to Homecoming with a great guy, a guy who had a good combination of friendom and flirtocity. Then the next dance came up, and the agony began again. Sometimes, it got in the way of friendships. Sometimes, it broke up potential love matches. All this for a couple awkward photographs with a cheap cityscape background, a few slow dances and fancy dinner.
I wish I could have cared less then. I wish I would have been more confident to go after who I wanted. I wish could have been happier for all my girlfriends, even the disgustingly popular and cute ones.
I wish I didn’t make other people’s happiness about me.
The good news is, though, I’m mostly over it now. A friend recently asked me how I feel when “it” happens for someone else, someone who used to be in the same camp as me. (and this can be applied to any of life’s changes–marriage, pregnancy, job promotions, whatever) And my answer is—I can now recognize other people’s success and not worry about my own. Lately, tons of authors are matching up with their perfect publisher or agent or getting great deals and reviews and I’m finally at the point where my reaction isn’t a twinge of jealousy, but happiness.
Just happiness.
Happiness that someone else is beginning to realize their dream. It’s their reward, their conquest. It doesn’t make me any less special or cute or talented or whatever. It isn’t about me.
If we can’t let go of those comparisons, it’s not going to end with the deal. Someone else will sell more books. Someone else will get better reviews. Someone else will make more money. As the great LIndsay Lohan said in Mean Girls, “All we can do is try to solve the problem in front of you.”
My date will come, hopefully in a Patrick Dempsey-esque package. But for everyone else, I’m happy for you. Get out their and dance, dance DANCE!
You deserve it.