Mean Girls

 

 

By Jillian Owens
December 27, 2013 

 

A few weeks ago, I was delighted to be invited to a happy hour outing with a few women I had just met and hit it off with at an art event. I have plenty of friends, but I’ve noticed that I have very few female friends my own age. It seemed strange and inexplicable. There certainly isn’t anything wrong with having mostly male friends. They have a different perspective. They’re laid-back and easy to get along with. They can offer sound advice for dealing with the opposite sex. They’re great at heavy lifting!

 

You can help me move my sofa any day!

But when these friendly and fashionable ladies invited me to join them, visions of book clubs and clothing swaps danced in my head. We’d probably chat about fashion…or music…or our careers…or what movies we’d seen recently. Maybe I’d score a hair care tip or two!

In case you can’t guess by the title, that’s not what happened.

While I came prepared to discuss what new restaurants were opening or fun things going on around town, my companions came prepared to unleash some serious vitriol against each other and their various freinemies. While waiting for each new lady to join our group, each and every one was dissected and found wanting before their arrival. Blanche (I’m just going to use names from The Golden Girls to keep this anonymous) was pissed because Rose bought the same sweater SHE bought, even after seeing pics of her in it on facebook! How DARE she? Dorothy was was livid that Sophia had totally copied her hair style. And Phoebe (we’re out of Golden Girls names now, so we’re switching to Friends, okay?) was sick to death of Monica being jealous of her because she was the one who married Joey, not her…so why did she always try to chat him up at parties?

They also apparently regularly hung out with people they hated…which boggled my mind. I have to try really hard to make time for all the people I like and love, so sacrificing an evening to spend with someone I didn’t like seems really really weird to me.

This launched a new conversation about how none of them trusted unattached singles around their husbands. These harlots were all immature, promiscuous, and jealous of them. They had nothing in common with such sad, desperate women.

Then one of them said something that gave me chills.

I can be a nice person. But don’t cross me. Everyone nodded.

I kept my left hand under the table for the rest of the night.

After a few more miserably awkward minutes of this, I paid my tab and left. Empty promises were made to do this again, but I knew I wouldn’t be hanging out with these people in the future…because they flipping terrified me.

They were just so mean. I didn’t understand it. How could a group of such successful, pretty, smart, and seemingly together women create so many things to be unhappy about? We all showed up to that restaurant carrying designer bags. Our lives aren’t exactly hard.

Don’t cross me.

How the hell would I cross you? By taking the last blueberry streusel muffin at Whole Foods? And what would you do about it? Scald me with a ladle full of crab bisque? And what about larger offenses, like telling your husband his sweater looks nice? Would that warrant a Fendi filled with quarters to the face? Geez. There are children starving in the streets and you’re getting sincerely worked up over nothing. And you’re mean. You are so flipping mean!

That’s what I should have said. Instead, I just kept my left hand under the table.

 

It was just like the movie!

I used to be like them. I used to be a mean girl. And I was way better at it than they are. I could dig up your deepest insecurity and make you cry in three sentences while smiling. Any perceived injustice against me and my precious ego would not stand.

I still feel really awful about this.

While at a bar one night about ten years ago, I overheard a conversation between an ex boyfriend and his new, far uglier cow of a girlfriend who I hated (this is past me, remember?). They were discussing Yours Truly.

She seems cool. She’s really witty, said my new nemesis.

Yeah. It’s easy to be witty when you’re mean.

That was the moment. Right there. It all sunk in. Every cruel jab I’d gotten in at others’ expense over the years. Every snarky and hurtful remark. Every petty piece of gossip. I was a jerk. And I was mean. I was really, really, really, really mean. It didn’t matter why. It didn’t matter if this was some misguided defense mechanism from being teased as a kid. It didn’t matter if this was how I felt I needed to behave in order to be considered clever. I was a grown woman and it had to stop.

It wasn’t like being mean actually ever got me anywhere, either. My relationships all flopped fairly quickly. With very few exceptions, my friends were all like me – catty, cruel, and not to be trusted. I’m pretty sure we didn’t even like each other. We tore each other down behind each other’s backs with pleasure. I didn’t enjoy their company or my own.

But how does one just stop being a mean girl and start being a woman? It was hard. I had to cut all ties with the people who applauded my vicious remarks. This included many of the people I hung out with and even some family members. I paid closer attention to what I said and how I treated people. I listened more and talked less. I volunteered for projects I believed in and helped people when I could. I bit my tongue (sometimes literally) when the perfect mean comment just ached to get out. When I heard others slamming someone undeservedly, I stood up for them.

Breaking the mean girl habit wasn’t easy. Occasionally I still slip. I’m certainly not perfect. But my life is infinitely better and more rewarding since I’ve stopped trying to be clever and started trying to be kind.