Mean Girl Redux

Mean Girl Redux

Posted to House Bloggers by Sondra Simmons on Thu, 01/15/2009 - 3:59pm

My boyfriend, Jack, and I were walking out of our favorite barbecue restaurant, fat and happy, when someone behind me said, "Is your name Sondra?" 

I stopped, turned, said, "Yes," and didn't recognize the bleached blonde with multiple piercings. I squinted at her for a minute; sometimes that helps me bring a face from long ago into focus, but not this time.

I gave up and asked, "Who are you?"

"Juanita," she said.

I frowned, then remembered. "Juanita Watson?! Ohh!" I squealed and gave her a hug. That surprised me as much as it did her; we'd never been each other's favorite.

I guess my brother was right about classmates being glad to see each other in later life, if only for the recognition of another survivor.

"Juanita grew up in the neighborhood, too," I explained to Jack, whom she barely acknowledged.

"You look good," I told her, thinking she seemed more relaxed, perhaps happier than back in the day.

She said she had just tossed on some clothes to run out and pick up dinner, then head home and watch the game. I chuckled.

"I always look like this," I told her.

"You do not," she said, and gave me an appraising look, taking in the hoodie peeking unevenly from beneath my leather jacket, my rumpled jeans and scuffed sneakers. 

"I see you've put on a little."

Why yes, Juanita, I am considerably heavier than I was in the late 1970s.

"Yep," I agreed with a smile. It is only now occurring to me that I could have been catty and asked if it was the drugs that were keeping her slim. 

I would have been happy to spend a few minutes chatting while she waited for her order, but she didn't seem so inclined. She volunteered no details about her life and asked only one question about mine: Where are you living now?

I told her, and we parted. I said I'd look forward to seeing her again. She said goodbye.

"Didn't seem like you two had much to talk about," Jack observed as we walked to the car.

"No," I said.

"Did you have much to talk about 30 years ago?" he wondered. "Nope," I said, recalling her vigorous disdain for me in our school days.

But it's now later in that same life. Here I am back where I started, divorced and, um, financially uncertain. I encountered somebody I once didn't like who also once didn't like me, probably still doesn't, and came away from it feeling pretty good: OK with who and what I am, comfortable in my own skin, and disarrayed clothing.

Finally.

And I'm grateful to nasty Juanita Watson for the experience.