The UnderToad

It may or may not come as a surprise to hear that ever since I was a kid, I have never really been popular among my peers.  My mother used to tell me that the boys and girls in my class were “intimidated by” or “jealous of” me.  Of course at the time I thought that was pretty much a crock of crap.  I knew I was smaller, flatter, and probably uglier than most of them.  And while I understand now why she never sat me down to say, “Listen Claire, you are and always will be slightly more intelligent and certainly a little weirder than the rest of the world.  You can fight it or you can get over it, but brace yourself, it will be a problem for the rest of your life,” I wonder what might have happened had she or my dad simply said, “Well, you are a little bit annoying.”

Ironic though it may now seem, growing up, I never thought of myself as above average in anything, least of all beauty and brains.  I wasn’t a straight A student (though I probably could have been) and my parents, always proud of our effort in school, never emphasized that grades equal success (though in reality they eventually do).  And, as the very last woman born in 1981 to get my period, I’m pretty sure I need not explain why the “beauty” department eluded me.

I was not particularly athletic in my northwest high school where basketball was everything, and in fact, as a varsity cheerleader in 9th grade, I understood rather quickly that I had pretty much signed my popularity death ticket as early as was possible.  So I gave up on the fight and embraced the only thing that was comfortable to me: baggy clothes and being funny.  Understandably, my humor was most appreciated by a select handful of nerds, but I quickly learned how to adapt to almost any environment by being as awkward as possible.  I figured every human is born with a natural sense of insecurity, and if I could suck up all the insecurity in a room and put it on myself, it would not only put others at ease, but would make people like me.  I’m not sure that the second part was entirely true, but it was almost like I had figured out what Family Guy and Tina Fey would one day be making millions of dollars for: one, repetitive humor is still humor.  That is, something just a little bit funny, if repeated with consistency and a lack of attention to just how annoying it may be, will eventually come full circle and remain funny in the end.  And two, self-deprecating humor might be the only chance of success for a female who is funny.  There’s just no such thing as funny, smart, and beautiful.  Not because it doesn’t exist, but because everyone hates that girl.

Whether because of all this or in spite of it, most of my friends in high school and college were boys.  Nerdy boys.  And I liked it.  (My parents couldn’t figure out why I was “hanging out with” only boys but not in fact dating anyone.)  For a long time I maintained that “girls just don’t like me.”  I realize now that, though I still say it, and sometimes still believe it, the opposite is actually true.  I really don’t like most girls.

This is a shame for a number of reasons.  First, it isn’t really appropriate for me to have a ton of man friends now that I’m married.  Forget appropriate, it also just isn’t possible.  Had someone told me 15 years ago that most male-female friendships are held together (or at the very least begun) because of the possibility of sex, however remote, I would have been a little more prepared for the end of all such friendships the minute I (or one of them) said the big “I do.”  As it is, there is very little room, if any, for meaningful connections with other men who are not also joined in holy matrimony to a woman.  It simply isn’t that season of my life, and never will be again.  And then there’s that ever present realization that once I found John, who is so clearly my best friend, there aren’t many men or women who measure up to the standard he both achieved and continues to set.  (Please ignore the romance of this statement and take it at face value.)

It turns out I am above average in far more categories than I ever gave myself credit for.  My realization of this before the age of 30, and willingness to admit it without fear of more people hating me is a testament to its truth.  And so my search for friends, especially some that are geographically at my disposal on a semi-regular basis, continues…

…and then, may I never use the b-word again.  (Bllll-o-ggggg.  What a stupid word.)

Reasons I should not have a blog:

1. I do not own an expensive camera and I’m willing to admit that my picture-taking skills are merely average.  So average, in fact, that I refuse to use the word ‘photography’ in reference to them.
2. I’m not that into cooking.
3. I am that into my kids, but so is every other parent on Earth.  Where’s the originality in unconditional love?
4. I admit that someone else is taking copious notes of the steals, deals, and coupon freebies around town and I’m not about to compete with something that already works just fine.
5. While satisfying my need for an immediate oratory outlet, the time I spend writing here is taking away from time I that could be spent making $$ for about the same amount of characters.
6. The chances of offending someone and losing my job as a result are always at a raging high.  Though my current career path of stay-at-home-motherhood would seem safe from unexpected requests for resignation, it would not surprise me in the least to receive some sort of an anonymous certified letter as a result of something I said here: “We cannot say exactly what was said, nor who was directly offended, but we strongly suggest that you re-read your own words, figure it out, and remedy the situation.  In the meantime, we believe your children would be safer somewhere else.”

Reasons I should have a blog:

1. I am an American.
2. I know how and when to use a semi-colon correctly.
3. Aside from the $2/answer homework help and making sure my children live to see another day, I do not have a technical job right now.
4. My kids, even without my commentary, are actually funny.  They are not funny like, “I-love-them-so-much-everything-they-do-is-so-precious-and-funny-to-me-right-now.”  They are obviously genetically predisposed to a sense of humor that is–albeit twisted and most appreciated by close friends and blood relatives–actually funny.
5. Said close friends and blood relatives, slow to take offense and quick to forgive, have given me the strong urging to channel my powers for entertainment purposes.  Getting paid in the future for a similar pursuit would be nice.
6. My laughter:offense ratio is about 5:1; I’m willing to work under such odds.

There are a few books I can count in my life that I was actually sad to finish reading.  The stories themselves might not have been anything life-changing, but the best books, I’ve found, are the ones who’s voices echo truisms in my head, in a language with which I can identify.  In short, these books are like little personal pocket sized best friends.  Due to a sudden and mostly-out-of-my-control career change about a year ago this week, I found myself home alone on a Wednesday morning (daycare was already paid through the month) sulking and mourning the loss of my identity, and big surprise, I was not in the middle of a book BFF.

Still on my first cup of coffee at 11am (a testament to how long I was in bed that day) by accident I stumbled upon one of those Internet moments that at the time I might have regarded about as I regard Facebook: with trepidation and somewhat in denial of my actual participation.  No, I was not looking at porn.  Instead, I found myself engaged in the precious words of a woman in the Northwest who’s voice stopped time for a little while.  What I found was this blog, and it was exactly like reading a book that I’m afraid to finish.  I sat down that morning and was lost for the next three hours.  This was the first positive discovery of what I would now consider one of the most difficult seasons of my life.

I hesitate to call Katherine Wakefield a friend.  I was introduced to her on a break during our freshman year of college when  I was home early from Baylor and she had not yet left Whitworth for Arizona.  We were introduced by her now-husband Andy, who was actually one of my top-5 high school crushes and is #3 on the list of Boys I’ve Kissed.  It was in the basement of the Wakefield house (possibly their future living room, actually) for the purpose of a Super NES-WCW championship (a brag-worthy high school past-time).  Though she and Andy were not technically dating at this time–and I’m fairly certain I was already on to #4 of the aforementioned list–I imagine our first impressions of each other were similar: “Of course she’s totally pretty.  And funny.  Bitch.”  And honestly, the rest of that day, though a bit of a blur, is marked in my mind by the realization that I had been replaced as the “token cool girl” of what was once my group of high school boy friends.

Well it not only turns out that Kat and Andy eventually married (2 years before I met John), but they had their first child with the same kind of desire and plan that John and I had Eliott.  That is to say, none.  So there I was that morning (afternoon?) on my couch, in fear of another life-crossroads, willing myself to believe that despite the circumstances surrounding my situation, God was still the same God, I was still the same Claire, and this would turn out okay.  In her words I found myself soaking up the comfort of caffeine and a voice which so clearly echoed the one in my head.  Token cool girl indeed.

I wanted to pick up the phone and call her immediately.  I wished (and still do) in that moment that she was my next door neighbor, and that instead of reading about each other’s lives, we could just share them on the back porch, together, with beverages.

It seems in many things, Kat and Andy (though my same age) are about 2 years ahead of me on the life-experience scale.  So I realize I’m at least 2 years behind on this little trend known as blogging.  But from her very first entry, I quote my exact and current sentiments:

So here I am. I just couldn’t help myself.  I woke up one day and realized that I needed to blog. Probably spawned by having 2 kids.  It is all very cliche and I am well aware of it.  To quote Andy, I am joining an “ever growing electronic culture that forsakes genuine human contact.”

Nonetheless I enter the blog world very excited.