Tag Archives: too old for teenage angst

For the Dedicated Follower of Fashion

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If you are like me, your life, at least the part that is connected to the computer and the Interweb, is interconnected with Google: Google Chrome (which I am using right now). Google search (Duh!). Maps. Directions. gmail. GTalk. Picasa. YouTube. Picnik. google checkout. google translate. Calender. Google analytics. Feedburner. Google Reader. Google Desktop. Google Docs. Google Earth. (Ok ok. I left Blogger for WordPress a while back ago, but still…) and so on.

So if you were google, what’s the next big thing you’d go after?

Would you have said FASHION?

Google launched Google Boutiques yesterday. They did drop the google name and call it simply Boutiques / Boutiques.com. With Boutiques, google aims to revolutionize the way shopping for fashion is done online, with the help of powerful algorithms.

I won’t bore you with the details, New York Times published a detailed review of the website and explanation for how it’s supposed to work.

Anyway, ever the Early Adopter (<– self-deprecating sarcasm) and Fashion Maven (aka I-wear-jeans-and-tshirt 350 days a year), I decided to check it out.

I started out by going through a series of “tests” so the powerful computers could determine what my taste is. Like this:

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This pair is one of the most "down to earth" in the series of images shown during the "aSSessment/evaluation"

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It turned out to be a long and arduous process of self-loathing…

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no images were found

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which proved my point that some of these things are not meant for you if you have trouble seeing the point. In the case of fashion, if you don’t see the point, you are either too poor, too old, or not thin enough. Or all of the above, which I believe applies to 90.5% of the population. 1% is so filthy rich they can look like whatever and people will still be fawning over them. 8% of the rest of the population is simply self-delusional.

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At the end, a verdict was given, according to the strong and powerful algorithm, my style and taste is…

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I can’t blame Boutiques.com though, after all, I DID hit SKIP too many times and it became depressed and wanted to get away from all of this too…

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… and don’t tell google, but I think I drove it to drink too.

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Coda: Despite the fear and loathing I went through, in the end, I think there are loads of fun that can be had with Boutiques.com. This is online window-shopping and virtual magazine clipping (Think: Tumblr for fashions, fashions that are for sale), and for the competitive amongst us, another place where you can amass followers, this time, with your keen sense of style.

Oh yes he is (oh yes he is), oh yes he is (oh yes he is).
He flits from shop to shop just like a butterfly.
In matters of the cloth he is as fickle as can be,
‘Cause he’s a dedicated follower of fashion.
He’s a dedicated follower of fashion.
He’s a dedicated follower of fashion.

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Thank goodness Halloween is here because I look better in drag

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Disclaimer: Objects in the mirror are both closer and farther than they appear.

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Preamble: I have no idea what the point of this post is or whether there is any. Except to demonstrate the power of Picnik, the danger of believing in profile pictures in social media (Think Catfish), and the fact I look much better in black and white which is why I secretly long for living in Pleasantville before those stupid kids ruined it for everybody, and I will gladly trade places with Tom Baxter in The Purple Rose of Cairo, incidentally a movie I also watched multiple times hoping Tom would turn and address me directly, “Hey you!”

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For our graduate production, my undergraduate class staged M. Butterfly by David Henry Hwang. The play calls for an Asian man to live in drag, pretending to be a woman and fooling the self-delusional French diplomat (based on a real scandal!) None of our male classmates stepped up to the plate, and therefore we had a woman playing a man playing a woman.

Although I suspect that how we did it due to necessity was not optimal for the theatrical production, I later learned that there is a term for this: Faux Queen, aka Biologically-challenged drag queen, Female female impersonator, or Female impersonator impersonator.

When I was young, I fantasized about dressing up as a man because being a man gives you a lot more freedom (Think Mulan). I wanted to be a swordswoman in one of the Wu Xia novels or movies (Think Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon), dressed up as a young warrior scholar so I could roam the world and right the wrongs.

To this day I look forward to rainy days before or after it actually rains. It gives me an excuse to walk around with an umbrella.

I was fascinated by Victor Victoria and (still) believe that Julie Andrews looked much better as Victor.

For the majority of my high school career, all girls school, hello! I did behave and dress more towards the male end of the spectrum: closely cropped hair, asexual clothing, and let’s not forget, aviator sunglasses. I was known to make young girls blush when they mistook me for a dashing young man. Well, I was relatively tall and lanky and handsome. In a manga-character-like, pre-sexual, innocent kind of way. For a bunch of high school girls with similar lack of exposure and access to the other sex.

When I said I peaked at the age of 18, until then I had been living an arguably cloistered life, I was not kidding. Being naturally feminine has never been my strong suit. And of course, who’s to say what defines femininity any more, and the distablizing ambiguity suits me fine.

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CODA: You know, I’ve struggled with this post since Monday. Normally if I am having such trouble with the direction I have been going in a post, I’d scratch it. Just as I was ready to give up and start anew some other time, I realized that Monday was the day when I bought my plane tickets home. This rambling on gender roles and prescribed femininity came from my anxiety of going home home next week. As much as I feel unease sometimes in this country, I feel/fear that I stand out like a sore thumb (and to some extent literally since I am tall by the local standard) over there. Oh well. I will be a woman playing a woman. Thespians, we are good at it, eh?

“I am so happy you’re alive”

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The most exciting, most surreal, yet most unnerving, and embarrassing part of the evening with David Sedaris (yeah this totally sounds like I spent some intimate hours with him, doesn’t it? THIS is why I have a blog: so I can alter reality with the power of my words) came when, more than half way through the book reading, he said that he often would get 10 copies of his books in a foreign language and would keep a copy while giving the rest away. “I just got this book today. It is in…” Chinese. Please let it be Chinese! I thought hard. My fists tightened. “… Chinese. So if anybody here who can speak Chinese, please come to the book signing table after this, just come to the front of the line and I will give the book to you.”

Oh my god! I cannot believe this is happening! oh my god oh my god oh my god!

“Me!” My heart pounding, my head spinning, I forgot I was in the middle of a jam-packed auditorium, I shot up, yelling, my right hand outstretched. Fortunately, the theatre was darkened. As fast as I stood up and made a fool of myself, I sank back down in my seat again. Fortunately I was surrounded by  the enlightened, liberal type so I only detected smiles and shared joy from my seatmates.

When the show was over, I stood up and immediately was crushed: the crowd swarmed the exits and there was simply no way for me to make a quick getaway. I decided to resign myself to the inevitable fate: I would be late to the table and the book would have been claimed, for shirley I cannot be the only Chinese person in the whole theatre…? If I give up hope now, it will save me from some debilitating disappointment. When things are too good to be true, you know it is too good to be true…

When I finally inched my way to the lobby, I got into a line that was surprisingly short. When I congratulated myself for the relatively short line, the lady in front of me kindly informed me that the line was for purchasing the books. I fought the crowd that were leaving the theatre to the other side of the lobby and saw a line that snaked along the corridor all the way back into the auditorium. As I accepted my fate and walked towards the end which I could not even see, something clicked. I did an about-face and marched to the front of the lobby where the table was.

“Excuse me, sir.” I said to the man that was at the very front manning the line. “During the book signing, he said he had a book in Chinese to give out and if anybody speaks Chinese, they should come to the table and ask for it.” I was so relieved when he did not dismiss me as an opportunistic nutjob and instead referred me to a lady who seemed to be in charge of the event. I repeated my line and she said, “Oh yes! Let’s see. We need to talk to his, ugh, his…” And she ushered me to the table as Mr. Sedaris was sitting down at the table.

I wish I could tell you that we had a sincilating scintillating conversation. Or that we hugged. Or that I took millions of pictures of him with his arm around me. (“Absolutely no photography allowed.” Several signs were strategically posted around the theatre, with one right by the table). Or that I licked him for the gals (after all, there was NO sign that said “Absolutely NO licking allowed!”)

Everything happened so quickly that I had no time to mentally prepare myself (and yes I knew I would meet him at book singing but I was expecting to psyche myself up when I was waiting in line! And no, I am not complaining about being able to skip ahead hours of waiting…) I was simply tongue-tied and brain-dead.

“So you speak Chinese?” He cocked his eyebrow. *melting*

“I can actually read this book. You see the two words literally means ‘Fire’ and ‘Flame’. And this is in traditional Chinese which means the book is from Taiwan and that’s where I came from!” I rattled off. He did not seem impressed or interested actually.

“I’ll give you this book and I can sign it for you. What’s your name?”

“Lin. L-I-N.”

“So Lin. What are you doing here?”

HUH? Is this a trick question? Should I say “I am here for your book reading?”

“Uh. I… live here?”

Certain that this answer was not enough, I added in rapid succession, “I came in 1993 and got my Ph.D. in theatre, got married and I’ve never left since.”

UGH. WHY did you tell him this? What the fuck does he care about this?! You are such an idiot!

“Is this book for you too? And it is Lin, L-I-N?” He asked as I handed him my copy of Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk. I nodded and idiotically pointed to myself.

I had an out of body experience right then and there observing and criticizing myself and yet there was nothing the out-of-body me could do to change the course.

“So, Lin, what are you doing here?”

I want to die. Ok, maybe that’s a bit too dramatic. I want to cry. I have no idea what he means by this question. Is it philosophical? Existential? Is he asking me about the meaning of life?

“What are you doing here?” He asked again.

“I came, I got married, I had kids, I never left. And now I am in suburban hell.” I said, barely able to catch my breath.

THAT. is my best shot. W.T.F, Self?!

Now I want to die.

“Well, it’s very nice meeting you!” He extended his hand and I shook it. After that there was nothing else I could do but leave, trying to ignore the murderous daggers shot from the long line of people waiting to be up close and personal to brilliance.

I walked out of the theatre and I began to cry.

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I know this is what you are thinking right now... I am sorry, ok?!

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On the way home I could not concentrate on driving at all. I kept replaying everything in my head (Yeah, like you haven’t heard that before…) obsessively going through every tiny detail in my less than one minute of face-to-face with David Sedaris.

It felt as though I was given the chance of a life time and I blew it.  <— Yes, I am a drama queen. The Court Jester in the Kingdom of Hyperbole. The rational side of me could see this perfectly. Now.

I wanted to kick myself but of course I couldn’t because I was driving, speeding away in the darkened highway besieged by sudden torrential rain.

“What are you doing here? What does he mean by that? And why did he ask me the same question more than once? Is it a code? Did he want me to tell him a joke? Did he want me to tell him something more than mundane?”

Then it hit me. I wish I had made up some sort of story about my ending up where I am. I should have said I was an acrobat. A magician. An origami artist. I should have said that I ran away from the circus I was traveling with and I am currently hiding in middle America, trying my darnedest to blend in.

I could picture his mind going, “Damn. How come of the 2 billion Chinese people in the world, I gave my book to the most boring one?!” <— Yes. This is gross self-aggrandizement. The rational side of me could see this perfectly. Now.

All I wanted was a do-over. To turn back time so I could regale him with my wittiness. The bizarre, funny, yet strangely universal story of how I landed here. In this way, the story I told would be eerily similar to his.

Instead, I raced home and collapsed in my conviction that I would never be given an once-in-a-lifetime so grand as this one and the self pity that I had gone and wasted it. <— See above. Thanks.

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It took me the whole day staring at the autograph, and finally asking my son to decipher it for me, to realize the word is not feces or feeble but feeling.

If anybody needs me right now, I’ll be wallowing in my chamber with my smelling salt.

O, woe is me, To have seen what I have seen, see what I see!

Wig Out

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I took a nap today from 2 pm to 4 pm.

(Wait. Let me jot down the date for today. On October 17, I TOOK A 2-FUCKING-HOUR NAP, RELATIVELY UNINTERRUPTED, AND WOKE UP ON MY OWN!!!)

When I woke up, I was completely disoriented because I thought it was morning. At first I was confused, then I went into a panic: I thought I had overslept. This seems to happen every time I (get to) take a nap: I need an hour to recover from the grogginess, not to mention the residual memory of the said panic attack. Sometimes I am not sure it is worth it.

The house was absolutely quiet when I stepped outside the bedroom. The kids were outside playing, I remembered them whispering in my ear, asking for permission when I was sleeping. Strewn on the floor were the wig called “70s Dude” and the John-Lennon-esque sunglasses my 7-year-old “Mr. Monk” just got from the annual trip to the (overpriced and crappy-quality) Mega Halloween Costume Shop. I thought, “Why not?”

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The Bloggess was right: Wigs rock!

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I screamed when I turned around and saw Mr. Monk quietly sitting in front of the computer.

“I didn’t know you’re home.”

“Is that my wig?”

Should I be concerned that he was completely unfazed by my behavior?

All of a sudden I heard a commotion: my 7th grader and his friends were running across our backyard, passing the open windows and barreling towards the back door. I pulled the wig and the sunglasses off right before they came in sight. I smirked as I remembered this line from Sara Gruen’s Water For Elephants (one of the books sitting on my nightstand and inside bathrooms which I hopefully will be able to finish by the end of this year)

Keeping up the appearance of having all your marbles is hard work but important.

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I actually tried on several wigs when we were at the said Mega Halloween Shop Stuffed With Mass-Produced Crap. In fact, I believe I tried on ALL of the non-blonde wigs they had: Elvira, Rebel Witch, Lolita, Hot Pink, Flapper Girl, Shirley Dimples, Sexy’n’Trashy, French Kiss Cheyene, Seductress, 60s Babe, Sultry, Punk Girl, Glamour, Madam Destiny.

Here’s the thing. My kids tried to talk me out of every single one. They must have found it unnerving. In fact, I KNEW they found it unnerving and that was why I stayed away from the blonde wigs. Mr. Monk kept on wanting me to try on the wig called “Mom” because

“That’s you. You are a mom!”

My 12-year-old tried to steer me towards the BLACK wigs.

“You should try this one. Or that one.” he pointed to the Egyptian Princess wig and Sassy Black Wig. Finally after the third pink wig that I asked for his opinion on, he said, “You really should just stick with a black wig, you know, because it does not look out-of-place.”

Yes, clearly, they did not understand the concept of Halloween when it came to their own mother.

And yes, though I am not proud to admit it, I sulked. I swallowed an entire speech right then and there and suggested that it’s time we check out and head home.

As we passed by the “Asian” aisle (labeled as so), the 12-year-old pointed out the wall with various geisha, China girl, Far Eastern girl costumes (black wigs included of course) “Mom, look! Yikes!” I turned towards him,

“Did you see? This was what I heard when you told me that I should stick with a black wig: A white woman can choose to be whoever she wants, having whatever color of hair she wants, whereas I have to stick with being Asian. With black hair.”

I sometimes feel very sorry for my children. “Other moms” don’t wig out over wigs, I bet.

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This was the fortune I got today:

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I once read that Fortune Cookie fortune writers have to strive to come up with messages that are neutral, offend no one and appeal to everyone.

What are the odds of this fortunate being “Absolutely not applicable – I am telling you honey, sweetie pie, no, I swear, this is just a stupid fortune, not going to come true, and of course I am not sad that it won’t come true” to whomever receives it.

The Girl in Her

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She did not want to come back the last time she was there.

She wanted to stay home. Home.

When she was there by herself, she was not a mother. She was not a wife. She was herself.

More enticingly, she was her younger self. She was a daughter. She was the much adored and lauded miracle child. The family legend.

The one who would be could have been “The Doctor”. The real kind.

She realized much to her sadness and guilt that she has not been a daughter since 1993 when she left home for graduate school. The first time she went home, she brought her American boyfriend with her.

She stopped being just a daughter to her family. She has never been back by herself ever since.

When she went home by herself, everybody treated her as if she had just left and then returned. They treated her as if she were only 24, how old she was when she left.

Time stopped.

It was disorienting.  A discontium of time and space.

You are here in the U.S. and 24 hours later, you are in a different world. The same skyscrappers. The same modern technologies. Cars. Material goods. Yet different.

Time also reversed. Her family treated her as if she were only 24. She was a daughter again. The unwed daughter. The pearl in their palms.

She looked at her parents who have aged more since she saw them last. She wondered how she could have done this to them. Rid them of their daughter. All these years of separation they seem almost like strangers, yet she remembered. It’s as if life in between simply were not there. She left. She came home. As simple as that.

Now she’s 24.

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She has a pretty face. In 3 D. She knows it. Yet nowadays she does not like to look at herself in the pictures. She dares not search for her own face in them. She cannot recognize herself in any of them because the image she has of herself inside her head is different from the face that is staring back at her.

It’s like whenever you hear the playback of a recording of your own voice, you are  startled by the strangeness of it.

Is this really how I sound to other people?

Oh my goodness. I should never open my mouth again.

The girl in her is puzzled by how she could have possibly aged so much.

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The girl in her did not know at first that being addressed as “Young lady!”, as in “Now, what would you like, young lady?” and “Bill, this young lady here would like an Amaretto Sour!” is actually a sign that you have passed a certain age threshold. People assume that you ought to be grateful for the subtle compliment.

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She gives herself a long, uncomprehending look sometimes when she walks by office buildings with glass walls.

The girl in her is surprised by the unfamiliar physique when she looks in the mirror.

Who is that middle-aged woman? If I feel like a P.Y.T. then who is this matron with thick arms and middle bulge?

The girl in her saw the repulsion in her husband’s eyes. Just for a fleeting second. But too late. She’s seen it. You cannot unsee it.

The girl in her says, with defiance, Wow. It kind of sucks to be you because I am not changing myself for anybody but myself.

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The girl in her does not know how to navigate space in real life now that she can no longer be classified as slender as her younger self.

It is as if her spatial sensory has never evolved with how her body has evolved. She keeps on bumping into corners. Door frames.

When she looks at pretty young things, she thinks to herself: Yup. I can look good in that too. Imagining her 18-year-old body in the same polka-dotted sundress.

The girl in her forgets that she no longer enjoys the luxury of youth and therefore is no longer as attractive as she remembers. This is not self pity. This is the truth as told by time.

The girl in her behaves as if she were still young and attractive and therefore she winks and smiles as one would.

Sometimes people see the sparkle.

Sometimes people don’t and are therefore startled by a not-so-slim not-so-young woman carrying herself as a young beautiful woman would.

The girl in her is saddened and disappears when she recognizes the startled look in people’s eyes.

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The girl in her never really leaves. She sits by the wing. On a stool next to the stage manager’s, waiting for her cues.

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The girl in her sometimes wonder when it will become inappropriate, or whether it will ever, should ever, to swing your arms while walking because you feel happy, or want to fabricate the sensation of happiness.

To look forward to a rainy day so you could walk around holding the umbrella as if it were a sword: palm open and up, with the blade pointing up and the sword against your back, and  envision yourself as a swordswoman, wandering and righting the wrongs in the world.

To dance in the rain.

To breathe deeply in the smell of rain. Fresh-cut grass. And let out a loud Ahhhhhhh——-

To roll down the hill.

To skip.

To be barefoot.

To jump in a puddle.

To say the word, Puddle, her favorite word, out loud for no reason because she likes the sound of it.

To talk to random strangers, and wink at them.

To flirt shamelessly.

To jump up and down while clapping your hands when you are excited.

To take off your shoes and throw them into the tree.

Just because.

To behave as if you had not aged since you turned 18.

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This is how she sees herself when she closes her eyes.

This is how she sees herself when her eyes are wide open, as a matter of fact.

Sometimes this is the only thing that feels real.

The girl in her.

Waiting

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Let's go. We can't. Why not? We are waiting for Godot.

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I have been thinking about this exchange in Samuel Beckett’s Waiting for Godot a lot lately.

ESTRAGON: Let’s go.
VLADIMIR: We can’t.
ESTRAGON: Why not?
VLADIMIR: We are waiting for Godot.

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End of Act I. They do not move

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This exchange recurs throughout the play. No progress is made. Nothing is changed.  Both acts end on the same verbal promise for action that is never carried out:

VLADIMIR: Well? Shall we go?
ESTRAGON: Yes, let’s go.
They do not move.

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It depressed the hack out of me when the lights dimmed on the two figures in the center of the stage: the same way they started; the same way they ended Act II.  Immobile.  Engulfed by the darkness, the unknown, eternity. The image and the thought haunts me.

They do not move.

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A lot have been written, theorizing the allegorical meaning of Beckett’s tragicomedy. The meaning of Godot.

To me, I’ve always thought that Beckett made a mistake; he should have turned the label the other way around – a comictragedy. This is a tragedy about Didi and Gogo who are the prisoners of their own misplaced hope. This whole waiting thing causes the inaction. It would have been better if they have come to the conclusion that no one is coming.  Things are not going to be better.  Nothing is going to change their situations for them.  But themselves.

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I didn’t even realize I have been waiting.  Waiting for something, for what I have no idea yet.

What are you waiting for? If you knew what you are waiting for, perchance an event, a sign, the other shoe, will it make everything more tolerable?

I compartmentalize.  By spouting random nonsense here I am able to continue to not think.  To forestall the unraveling.  To keep it together.  To carry on with no resolution in sight.  To wait.  Not remembering that I have been waiting.

For what I know not yet.

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Let’s go.

We can’t.

Why not?

We are waiting for Godot.

“precisely ninety-one centimeters from himself”

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“Having been struck by a 150-ton meteorite, Henry has to adapt to living precisely ninety-one centimeters from himself.”

Once in a while, you come across something that so resonates with you to the point of altering your reality. Or your perception of reality. It’s like, all of a sudden, you can see yourself more clearly. You understand what is going on inside your head. You see what the root of your problem is. Yet to explain that something, or how or why, is completely beyond your command with words. Haunting. That is all you can think of.

Tautology: using something incomprehensible to explain something incomprehensible.

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Exactly 91 cm away from himself…

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I came across something yesterday.  The Bloggess mentioned it as “Painfully poignant: you should watch this”.  So I did. And I have not been able to stop thinking about it. Have not been able to stop crying actually.

If you have ever questioned who you are, where you are, what you are, why you are. If you live with the haunting that you may not be yourself. Or that if you are, then who is this other person. If you ever feel/fear that if you lie still long enough, you will for sure float outside of your body and look down back on yourself lying in bed, and you are scared that you may not recognize yourself. If you could almost precisely predict when you will have an existential breakdown.

If you wonder what it is like to have such chaotic thoughts inside your being. Watch this. “Skhizein“, written & Directed by Jérémy Clapin

 

Skhizein (short film) from Jeremy Clapin on Vimeo.

 

Know thyself. Be thyself.

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It is 2:03 am. I am all of a sudden wide awake.

Note to self: Listening to PRI Selected Shorts podcasts while cleaning the house is a sure way that your mind will become overactive and that you will have trouble falling asleep.

I will pay for this indulgence: lying down on my Therapy Couch and talking to you all, my imaginary friends, (I am going to start calling you Soren Lorensen I think…) soon since I have a 6:30 am flight to catch and I have not packed yet. Coming here has clearly become a serious addiction. I carry this urge at my throat to write something down all day long. I am afraid to open my mouth lest a scream may come out.

I often panic when I am made aware of this since it feels so similar to Narcissism…

Someone very wise, probably wiser than Confucius since she is female (and Confucius was obviously not) and women rock because of our uterus, that I have had the privilege of meeting through this little patch of heaven I call my Therapy Couch (or hell on some bad days I won’t lie to you) told me that she could tell that “blogging is both a creative outlet and just outlet” for me.

She was right. When I first started doing this, I really did not expect anybody to come by and get into a conversation with me. I saw this as a different medium of talking to myself since I have been doing that inside my head for a long time. Why not? I simply jotted down whatever came to my mind. No self-censorship. And no editing either, to be very honest with you.

It felt like liberation from Facebook. From the potential for censure by family, friends, colleagues. It felt like liberation from Twitter. From the bondage of 140 characters. And it felt like the earth after rain. It felt good.

When I began to have supportive friends who stop by on a regular basis, to check me out and make sure that I am still operating in a socially acceptable manner, I was flattered yet incredulous. “Surely they have mistaken me for someone else, or something else.” With that self-congratulatory realization of “OMG I have fans” came the burden to please. Or at least, since I have no mental filter once my mouth starts running, the fear for offense. The desire to please everybody, nay, the compulsive need to please everybody is one of those soul-killers that I am trying to escape. I am afraid I may have lost my way.

At the risk of sounding like I am trying to recast myself as the cliche in I’ve Never Been to Me… I am getting back on my journey to understand myself better. The peeling of the onion. What is more important though, is that once I find myself, I really need to just be myself. Perhaps the being and the finding happen at the same time.

So…

Dear Soren Lorensen,

I hope you will stay. But if you outgrow me or the other way around, I wish you the very best.

As always, a pretentious rambling such as this will not be complete without a quotation from a famous, yet just a tad out there, writer. Preferably by e. e. cummings. Here it is.

To be yourself

The white flag goes up…

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Remember the tagline of my blog? These posts are supposed to be my therapy sessions. Ranting about the demise of Thanksgiving and gloating about making shotgun Christmas ornament is not very healing. The following is one of my therapy sessions. I am getting on the coach now. You have been forewarned…

I am not quite sure about the whole Twitter and the blogging thing any more. First I have the follower counts to obsess about. Then I agonize over how few of the @’s I have been getting. Now there are the LISTS that scream “Popularity Contest” more than ever. The same with this blogging thing. I installed the WordPress Blog Stats plug-in. Now I get to watch the pot boil.

Don’t worry. I am not going to whine. Honest. Cross my heart and hope to die. There is actually a funny story I want to share with you. I want to explain why I am scared to death of popularity contest. Literally. Anxiety attack type of reactions. Chest closing down on me. Disorientation. Hard to breath kind of thing.

As soon as I sense that something is in essence a popularity contest, I never bother trying. I just give up. I am scared to death of popularity contest. I am also scared to death when I have friends. When people take a liking to me.

In short, I am afraid to disappoint.

I am not a shrink, but my guess is that you would be scared of popularity contest if you went through fourth grade through sixth grade with NOBODY in your class speaking to you. The entire three years… Silence. As if you were not even there.

No violin in the background. I will save you the drama and just list the facts:

  1. I was one of the popular kids in my class from first grade to third grade. I remember that because I remember being one of the first ones to be chosen whenever a game demanded such cruel device of pitching innocent children against each other.
  2. One day, out of the blue, during fourth grade, I noticed that nobody in my class would talk to me. They willfully ignored me. I was suddenly invisible to them.
  3. Since all the kids stayed in the same class throughout the remaining grades, this silent treatment lasted till I graduated from grade school.
  4. I thought about running away from home because my mother would not believe me. I was unable to convince my parents to transfer me to a different class or school.
  5. I started thinking about suicide early on because I had no idea how to end THAT. Please don’t be alarmed: When you believe in reincarnation, the thoughts of suicide do not carry the heavy concept of sin and ending.
  6. This childhood experience affects what I do, think, say from that point on.
  7. I still have nightmares about THAT.

This is actually a funny story. Well, what happened AFTER the grade school is. As the years went by, I would see some of my tormentors classmates in the senior high school we went to. Apparently there was going to be a class reunion the year we entered college.  “You are like the ugly duckling turning into a swan now.” Code for: you cleaned up good. Mind you: we all went to same-sex senior high schools so the person that said this to me was female. Would you like to go?

Of course, as needing therapy as I am, I went. I was curious. I wanted answers. I of course also wanted to show that I turned out ok. Despite everything. Somehow I also managed to charm.

On the long bus ride home, the man-child sitting next to me was very obviously smitten. I have been wondering for six years why they all treated me like shit, actually, worse than that, like NOTHING, back then, but I was also lucid enough to have guessed that probably nobody else remembered THAT but me. I took my one chance and gingerly brought THAT up.

“Do you remember when in grade school, none of you talked to me for three years?”

“Huh. Oh. Yeah. You still remember THAT?”

I proceeded to describe in simple terms how it felt to be me in those years. I was looking out the window when I spoke. The last thing I wanted to see was the expression that proved my suspicion that none of my sufferings were real to anybody else, that I might as well have imagined them. Soon I heard sobbing. I turned and saw tears streaming down his cheeks. Then came the Confession of the Century that I was not expecting:

“It was ME!”

“Huh?”

“It was me that told everybody to stop talking to you.”

Then I remembered that we were best buddies in the third grade. I recalled watching him hogging the Pacman machine until the store owner came out to give him his coin back. I even recalled going to his house and playing with him and his younger brother, and his mother saying, “Come back again soon!”

“… why?”

“Hmm. I guess because I liked you.” More sobbing. “I am so sorry. I didn’t know it was so difficult for you.”

“There. There. It’s ok. I am ok now.” I ended up having to console him.

The truth of course was: I was not ok.

Later, through college years, he wrote me several love letters. I did open them but could never bring myself to read them.

Hi. My name is L. I am forty years old and I still have nightmares about my friends not talking to me. In my nightmares we are all still 10 years old.