I've only recently rejoined Facebook after deactivating my account last year. I was a full-blown junkie in desperate need of counseling. But like most addicts, a relapse was inevitable. I'll be sure to provide full disclosure on my addiction in a detailed post, but that story must wait for another day.
As I cautiously dipped my toe back into the Facebook waters, I was somehow included in a group for my 20th high school reunion. Out of curiosity, I looked at the page. I received my diploma with about 500 kids, and I could hardly recognize a soul. Except one. The girl who made my life a living hell from 7th grade through high school graduation. Let's just call her Herodias (I like biblical references because I know how much they annoy Atheist-Friend). For my "Old Testament Only" readers, Herodias was the gal who demanded the head of John the Baptist.
With her smiling profile picture staring up at me, I clicked Herodias' info. A mother with daughters. Daughters. For avid readers, you remember that one of the reasons I am relieved to have sons is my horrific experience with mean girls. Six-footers with limited athleticism in high school are pretty much the low-hanging fruit for Queen Bees. I was a sheltered kid who attended mass, did extra credit, and loved diagramming sentences. I mean, really? Couldn't Herodias even try to look for a challenge?
For years, Herodias mocked my Kmart jeans that were way too short, my ultra-flat hair in the age of super-sized poofs, and the horrible facial hair young brunettes display unwittingly before they discover the miracles of waxing or electrolysis. I was a train wreck and Herodias knew it.
As a mother now, I suppose I should recognize the "bully" profile and feel a certain amount of sympathy towards poor Herodias. Many bullies come from single-parent homes. They have less frequent contact with adults. Esteem is low. Herodias could only feel better by making me feel worse. But I'm still not ready to let go of that defeated 13-year-old girl with the bad posture and shy demeanor. When I got a follow-up email from another friend from high school asking why I was no longer on the FB group, I told her the truth: the wounds were still there and perhaps only aggressive therapy and prescription medication could prop me up so as to endure a 50th reunion. Sorry, committee. You may just want to cross me off your list for the next few decades.
They say that living well is sometimes the best revenge. As this blog clearly shows, my life is far from perfect. Yet I am happy. I do sometimes miss the career that introduced me to phenomenal people I still love. I also miss the opportunities to travel, develop creatively (in a non-blog way), and improve on my managerial skills. But nothing compares to the three little boys I over-schedule and cook frozen pizza for.
Then there's my husband who loves me despite the fact that I listen to Rent and have no rhythm whatsoever (it was his idea to take dance lessons for our wedding). Naturally, Joe was one of the cool kids in high school - resembling a boy-band member with high cheekbones and stunning blue eyes. He thinks I'm exaggerating when I tell him what a geek I was in high school. He doesn't want to admit he married the equivalent of "Captain of the Band-Campers."
So if I'm not always living well (or rather perfectly), I am living with the best 4 guys in the world. The universe knew what it was doing in making sure I'd never have to live with a mean girl of my own making. My boys like my Target clothes and tell me I'm beautiful as I pick dried milk off my shorts. I don't feel I need to prove anything to Herodias. Plus, the poor thing is going to have 3 teenage daughters under her roof in a few years.
Karma is a bitch.