I Stood Among Them.
At Chatham College, I stood in a long line to register for my classes. I studied my course catalog and thought about my choices, but my classes had rather been chosen for me. Still, I was happy to be there, doing something I really wanted to do for my future.
Chatham had long been a college for women (although I later discovered one man in my program) so in line with me were other young, eager women, all giggly and chatty.
Sober for the first time ever in a collegiate environment, I stood among them.
I felt extremely uncomfortable: socially awkward, quiet, weird, completely abnormal among normals. I couldn’t take a comfortable breath. Without knowing a soul, I believed that every woman on the entire campus was more beautiful, more intriguing, funnier, smarter, more social and more interesting than I would ever be.
I knew all of my flaws and none of theirs. I compared my insides to their outsides. I’d done this since the beginning of time and found it to be the only way to guarantee my appropriate place at the bottom of the social ladder.
I had learned nothing about friendship since getting sober. I spent most of my time with Paul, and the only woman I really knew was my exceptionally fun neighbor, Louise who – I believed – only liked me because I lived next door.
My interests were stereotypically un-female: I liked dogs instead of dolls, cars instead of fashion, baseball instead of dance, blue instead of pink.
But standing there at Chatham I realized, quite suddenly: This is my chance to be accepted by women!
I looked around, excited, and pondered how to proceed. I wasn’t sure how to get comfortable, but I knew from Mount Union that I would need to find some female friends.
So when the woman in front of me started talking to everyone within listening distance about her experiences at cosmetology school, I perked up.
“I went to cosmetology school for two years!” she said to all who surrounded her. “If you ever need any advice about hair or nails, I’m your girl!”
This must be how she gets accepted, I thought. Girls like cosmetology stuff.
One girl stepped unapologetically from the crowd. “What can I do with my nails?” she cried. “The red paint is always chipping on these two fingers!”
The cosmetology student stepped toward her, took her hand, considered the problem. “Oh! You should use gel polish!” she advised.
“Thanks!” The girl nodded and stepped back.
I didn’t paint my nails, and barely knew they existed. But I realized: I am a girl! I can be part of this!
I really wanted a friend, any friend. I stepped boldly forward and held out my hands. “What can I do?” I asked meekly.
The cosmetology expert held my hand, considered it, then let go abruptly, as though I were a leper. “You have fan-shaped nails,” she said. “There’s nothing anyone can do with those!”
Then she turned her back on me and moved toward the next set of fingernails.
My eyes welled with tears. I didn’t care about my fan-shaped nails, but I was suddenly on the outside of the circle, again, all eyes turned toward other nails on other hands.
Somehow, even though I’d given it my best effort, I’d been rejected by women again.
Right then and there, I gave up on making friends and decided I’d just focus on my classes, which is exactly what I did. Other than the one male in my program (whose name, I still remember, was Robert), I never even got to know the other students’ names.