On Fitting In and Failing

Pretending to like sports - a tale as old as time

I used to convince my father to watch baseball in the summer. Not professionally, but the high school games played in the fields out by rodeo grounds and lizards, on hot metal bleachers in the desert sun. Luckily my father liked baseball. Little resistance was ever given, as long as chores were done and my dad had a free evening. Me, I cannot stress enough, I hate sports. I don’t like watching them. I don’t like participating. But I did like hanging out in bleachers, watching the boys my age play. And by boys, I mean one in particular.

Of course.

My crush started innocently enough, even if I can’t remember when it crossed over into “Dad can you please take me to the baseball fields?!” territory. I’m certain I was fooling absolutely no one, but off we’d go. Him to actually watch the game and me, to watch the boy I loved and wander, hoping to find friends to join me. But mostly to watch the boy.

This watching-a-sport-when-I-absolutely-hate-sports was, of course, just the beginning of silly ways I contorted myself to get noticed. To fit in. With the popular girls - a status I both loathed and desired, it seemed to come so easily, even if I never stopped to wonder if they, too, were contorting bits of themselves for their own male gaze trophy case or to stay in the graces of the queen bee. But, me…I wasn’t pretty. We were not rich, nor did we live anywhere near the desirable part of town. I didn’t stand out, in any way that was wanted, but I did stand out in ways that were not. I was convinced I had nothing to offer as myself. I was awkward and bookish and gathered notebooks instead of people into my life.

Sometimes, I think, I still gather notebooks instead of people.

My therapist said to me once, out of absolute, but good-natured frustration, that he’d never tried to help someone so utterly self-aware before. I’ve thought a lot about that and decided that is the ultimate paradox of me. I understand my problems and issues and the problem comes when I don’t know how to do anything different than I’ve always done before. I can articulate the problem, but I can’t fix it.

While in college, the men I dated were all very different from one another. But the one thing they all had in common was their ability to help me find my voice a little more with each breakup. When Runaway Bride came out in the late ‘90s, I was captivated because I identified in ways I had never articulated to anyone ever before. A particular scene stands out in my mind - Richard Gere’s character interviews all of the jilted would-be grooms and the last question he asks to all is “How does she like her eggs?” and every one of them gives a different answer. When this is realized by Julia Roberts character, she starts eating eggs to find out what she actually likes, instead of what she says she likes to appease whatever man she is with at the moment.

(Fried, for the record. I like fried eggs, over-easy with soft-boiled being a very close second. I don’t love scrambled unless it’s between two pieces of toast slathered in Miracle Whip and ketchup and eaten for dinner.)

While I never had the problems with co-dependency Maggie from the movie had, I could identify in each of my relationships where I had molded myself in certain ways to pacify and keep love and attention, desperate not to lose it. And once I was married to my now husband, I started to see how this pattern happened in my friendships, as well.

The years between my divorce and my remarriage found me living in a city I didn’t want to be in, but with a job I loved. It also found me hiking on some weekends, quite against my will. I hate hiking. There are so many other activities I would rather do than wander in the wilderness for hours, sweating. Literally anything indoors, for example. But there I was, slapping on inappropriate shoes (probably Converse) and following my friend up into the mountains early on Saturday mornings. I’ve often wondered why I didn’t speak up, more. Or did I, but instead of being emphatic, did I give in at the slightest beg? Was I so used to being walked over in my romantic relationships that I allowed myself to be a doormat at this stage of life or…was it scrambled eggs when I wanted fried? Simply molding myself into what I thought my friend wanted in order to keep love and attention directed toward me at a vulnerable time of life.

I’m 50. One would think I would have this down, by now. Mastered. I keep waiting, to be honest, for that transformation. And while I’m no longer hiking against my will or watching boys play baseball, I still long to fit in. To not say the stupid thing. To be openly me without fear of judgment.

Being left of typical in my culture and just awkward enough, I never really found my stride in friendships. I never really stopped being the poor, out-of-the-way girl who just wanted craved acceptance among the masses and I kept my circle small, scared to open myself up for fear of getting hurt. Of losing my voice again. And then a friend asked “what era do you want to be in, right now” and my answer hit my brain faster than I was prepared for: “I want to collect friends who love the authentic me, without having to mold myself, censor myself, change myself”. And as I thought it, I felt how tired I was. How much of myself I’ve hidden. How much of myself I’ve been conditioned to change in exchange for someone else’s love and attention.

That night, I had a dream. I dreamed that I admitted I wanted this friend’s help in finding women I might mesh with. I dreamed I asked her to help organize a dinner where I might be able to find more friends. I woke the next day, terrified that it was real. Because this is where I stumble. I close down immediately after a glimmer of vulnerability is seen. I push away. I pull back, hold back, backtrack. It’s my superpower. But one I want to shelve, a little, next to those notebooks I’ve gathered instead of friends.

So maybe I do want a new era. Maybe I do want to step all in and feel what it’s like to not have to contort and mold and pretend to like something I don’t and just see what might happen. And maybe I can tell my therapist that instead of just understanding this about myself, I gambled, stopped thinking, and tried something new.