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outside

When I was seven years old, I took ballet classes at the local Park District. Every Tuesday and Thursday I’d race home after school to change into my leotard and tights, grab my ballet shoes, and hop in the car to be chauffeured over to the brown and white building where the lessons took place. No other girls from my school were in the class, but I didn’t care. I loved to dance.

One afternoon – I must have had a doctor’s appointment or had to stay after school or something – I didn’t have time to run home to change so my mother picked me up with my ballet clothes already packed. She dropped me off and I carried my bag with my ballet gear to change in the tiny bathroom in the basement of the building. The downstairs was dark and shadowy, with remnants of broken toys and gym mats. I could hear muffled laughter from the girls upstairs.

I struggled to pull on my leotard and tights in the small space, bumping into the toilet and the sink. I rushed upstairs, happy to be out of the dark basement and the cold bathroom. The girls in class weren’t lined up at the barre, they were all sitting on a fuzzy blanket, finishing up what looked to be pink-frosted cupcakes. It was one of the girl’s birthdays, someone explained. I turned to the girl and wished her Happy Birthday. She smiled through pink frosting-stained teeth. I waited for someone to offer me a cupcake, but no one did.

It was the first moment I can specifically recall the feeling of being outside and looking in.

I’ve written in this space over and over again about feeling different. When I’m in a particularly introspective mood – which lately seems to be all the time – I try to go back and pinpoint the very time when I started feeling as if I had been separated from the pack.

That day stands out.

So does the day my mother told me I wasn’t pretty.

My best friend in sixth grade was Kim. Kim was tall and skinny and had curly blonde hair and blue eyes and her parents lived in a huge house. We went on bike rides and ogled Tom Cruise (before he was crazy!) and stayed up late watching music videos on the big-screen TV in her basement.

Kim’s mother was picking her up from my house. As Kim bounded out the door, my mom said

Your friend Kim is pretty.

She is, I agreed.

You, my mom continued, well, you’ll have to figure out how to use your head. You’re smart.

I was twelve.

The years passed. My friends started having boyfriends. We called it “going out.” I was forbidden to “go out” with anyone – not that anyone asked me. It didn’t matter, though. Pretty girls dated. I was smart, so I got good grades. Girls were figuring out how to deal with boys and I was worried about passing Physics.

Once again, I was a stranger in a strange land, not knowing the rules and regulations of dating. Dances came and went, and again, I wasn’t asked. Mom started to wonder if I was interested in boys at all, so I decided that waiting for someone to ask me was silly. I started asking them. One homecoming, three holiday dances, one prom. I went to two dances with a Not-Date, and the rest I went stag – my senior prom included.

Older SlackBrother J. went to Yale. Everyone was shocked when they began recruiting him for their football team. Before you jump to dumb-jock conclusions, J. was a decent student. B plus average, decent SAT scores. Oh, and he could come off the ball. Suddenly my parents were convinced that I could get in. I had the A plus average, was on the board of four different activities and involved in a lot more, had a 1400 SAT. Yale was going to be the type of place where I could fit in. Where I’d find kindred spirits.

Except that I didn’t get in.

I used Northwestern as my backup school. The first day I saw the school was the first day I set foot on campus. My roommate was from Texas, and decided she liked the girl who lived next door better. We fell into a pattern of mutually ignoring each other, and I threw myself into my film classes and the radio station.

But I was a square peg in a round hole. I dropped out after the first quarter.

Nine months later, I tried college again at Boston University. Coming in as a sophomore meant that I lost out on a year of socializing, but I threw myself into it. I hated my roommate, I lived in a huge dorm and made a group friends. For once, I felt like I was where I belonged.

Until the group of friends broke up upon realizing that they were all sleeping with the same guy. He had made a play for every one of us.

Well, except me.

A few years later found me working as an assistant at ICM, one of the largest agencies in Hollywood. The hours were long and the work was hard. I thought that I’d be among like-minded people and camaraderie would be fueled by the ground war we fought every day.

Of course, I was wrong.

The other assistants drove BMWs and had trust funds. Their $300 hair cuts and Gucci loafers only made my Ross Dress for Less knock-offs look just that more embarrassing. Once again, my nose was pressed to the cold windowpane, while everyone else was dancing inside.

A. used to tell me that he was cheated out of things, by being married so young and for so long. You got to experience other things, I used to tell him. If you hadn’t done everything you had done, you wouldn’t have met me.

When I met A., I realized that I had finally found someone who understood what life looks like from the outside. I thought that I could share the fact that the view is beautiful from out here. I think that’s the hardest part. He’s someone that I feel is part of me on a visceral level and then suddenly torn away.

I don’t think he ever realized that everyone misses out on something. There are times I feel like I missed out on everything. How to meet people. How to socialize. How to catch up to everyone else.

How to be anything but the girl without the cupcake.

But I don’t think I’ve really missed anything, because all of these events have conspired to make me the person who I am at this very moment. The person who can be terrifically shy but share private moments with thousands of strangers. The person who feels awkward chatting at parties but is fantastically clever online. The person who is much more comfortable putting her thoughts in written form than she is speaking them aloud.

I’ve been separated from the herd, but I refuse to be eaten. I’ll just start a new pack.

I may be outside, but I know I’m not the only one.