I am going through a really interesting stage of life. No, don’t stop reading – I am NOT talking about menopause! It is true that my children have left home to start their own lives with careers in the city, or girlfriends to live with. But no, what I am reflecting on today has nothing to do with hormones, or lack thereof.
When we are young we are blind to the prevalence of ‘pack animal’ behaviour. We play with whoever we can find, and very rarely question why we are having fun with another ‘mate’ or ‘buddy’, or over time, ‘friend’. By late primary school and definitely secondary school we begin to understand the positives and challenges of ‘belonging’ to a particular group. On one hand, there is a temporal feeling of security that comes with finding one’s tribe. On the other, to those that never find it, feels like free diving for the first time. Only, it happens day after day – that feeling of slow suffocation for many.
Then, there are the cliques. The groups of boys, girls or both, that seem to believe they own the right to judge everyone else, and through the power of exclusion, somehow elevate themselves to being in a league of their own. In particular, everyone knows the ‘cliquey-girls’. They are carbon-copies of one another, with slightly different tones of orange fake tan, slightly longer lengths in their false eyelashes, and slightly different boys they are pursuing. Many a newbie at school is faced with the dilemma of joining the clique, for the instant elevation in status, or instead declining, sure to end in social suicide. What’s interesting is that many of these ‘Mean Girls’ are completely innocent when sitting alongside their parents at parent-teacher interviews. Seriously, butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths! Not one roll of the eyes, glance at the phone, or combative response to a reasonable request.
So, what happens when these girls grow older? They possibly bring up mini-me versions of themselves and have alcohol dependence. No, I’m talking about even older again. You see, I recently went along to a Quilters’ Group, for I was in desperate need of some good advice, and with Covid 19 calling the shots, I was unable to get to my local sewing shop. I knew I could cross the border into New South Wales, and participate in a group social event, without the fear of being broken up from a heavily locked down policed State.
I was a bit nervous. Not knowing anyone but the one lady who had invited me when I reached out online. She seemed lovely for inviting me so I decided I would give it a shot. I arrived about 20 minutes after the starting time in order to get the lay of the land, or assess how many faces and people I would be dealing with. As I entered the back door of the Church hall, and took a deep breath I was a bundle of nerves. I entered the larger room and thankfully found the lovely lady. She was in deep conversation but glanced up and beamed at me. At the same time, fifteen other faces pivoted from their lap projects, some heads spinning faster than Shane Warne on a hat-trick. New faces were a novelty, and a younger new face was most certainly a curiosity. I was introduced and a few voices called out ‘Welcome’, but most returned to their own conversation and needlework.
As I stood at the back of the hall ironing open my seems, I was afforded a moment to truly assess the dynamic. As I thought of the few women who had gone out of their way to make conversation or look at my quilt, my eyes wandered over the majority of the group. I noticed heads together, nods in my direction, murmurs and whispers. Oh my God. I realised I was faced with the same reality of those teen years when the cliquey girls give you an appraisal before committing to getting to know you. It was true – cliques don’t die, they reinvent themselves over and over in many different permutations. But, I stood tall and proud. Not just of my quilt (I could probably out-sew most of them on a bad day!), but of who I am. You see, I am an independent thinker, a woman who is confident in her voice, and someone who does not need a group surrounding me to feel powerful. I have never been part of a nasty clique and I wasn’t about to start. It doesn’t matter what stage of life you are, you will encounter the same shallow, insecure people trying to feel better about themselves. The important thing is that you don’t fall for it. I left that day knowing that Mean Girls become Mean Grannies. Life is what you make of it.
The Philosophical Realist 