Shameful
confession number 674: I am a secret people pleaser. Now, before you go getting
all judgey-judgey on me, I’m confessing to being a secret people pleaser, not being
any good at it. My competence and
proficiency in the people pleasing arts are an entirely different topic for an
entirely different blog. I think the operative word here is secret, since I
like to pretend I’m kind of a badass, and I certainly don’t mind going toe to
toe with anyone who deserves a thorough verbal lashing. (I have occasionally been known to lash out at
those who may not entirely deserve it, a fact I’m compelled to share here
because there have been witnesses. Applebee’s waitress, I’m talking to and about
you. Little jerk-off in the Chevy Malibu who cut me off in the parking lot at
SDSU, you were asking for it and I refuse to apologize. May you never, ever
need to come to me for a job) Nonetheless, at my unengaged and chubby core, I
am nothing more than a middle-aged people pleaser with codependent tendencies.
Thank you, therapy, for providing me an entirely new vocabulary to use as I
berate myself for my shortcomings.
Beyond the
therapy-inspired lexicon, my time on the couch has also provided me ample
opportunities to climb into the Delorean time machine to revisit the thoughts, feelings, and
experiences of five year old me and ten year old me and 14 year old me, not to
mention the me’s at all the ages in between. As you might imagine, I have
limited tolerance for these activities and walks down memory lane because I’m
trying to build a better future, not rehash a past that I may not entirely
remember. Since I have entrusted my mental health to an actual professional,
while I may be resistant to his techniques, I’ve challenged myself to at least
give the process a whirl under the heading of, “What doesn’t kill me could make
me stronger.” Since I can’t let bygones be bygones, I’m spending more time than
any normal and functional adult should revisiting my sordid past.
My earliest
memory of people pleasing has nothing to do with actual people. Because why
would it? No – my people pleasing actually started out with Muppets, or more
specifically, characters on Sesame Street.
Back in the 1970’s, things were different on Sesame Street. Mr. Hooper was
still alive and serving as the proprietor of Hooper’s Store. And for the first
16 seasons of Sesame Street, only Big Bird could see Aloysius Snuffleupagus, his tusk-less wooly mammoth best friend. In spite of Big
Bird’s insistence that Snuffy was real, the grown-ups on Sesame Street refused
to believe poor Big Bird and often teased him about his imaginary friend. Even
worse, the adults accused Big Bird of using Snuffy as a scapegoat (or would it
be a scape-mammoth?) whenever something went wrong out of their immediate line
of sight. This injustice was simply more than my four year old self could
handle. What the hell was the matter with these grown-ups? Are you blind? Can’t
you see the giant teddy bear Snuffy left behind? And why are you being so mean
and cruel to Big Bird? He’s just a nice yellow bird with a friendly demeanor
and a wooly mammoth BFF. While I looked forward to watching Sesame Street every day, the anxiety and
the emotional turmoil of Snuffy-gate was more than I could bear, and if four
year old me could have jumped into the television to help Big Bird out, I most
certainly would have.
I eventually
graduated from Muppets to actual humans, and there are plenty of
people-pleasing (or not) examples from ages five to 13 I could and probably
will share in the safety and comfort of my therapist’s office, where there is
ambient lighting and an ample supply of generic facial tissue. (You’re
welcome.) But if we fast-forward to age 14, indulge me for a moment while I
tell you yet another people-pleasing doozy.
The year was
1987. The jeans were acid-washed; the jackets were denim; and the hair was big
and so full of chemicals that it probably violated every OSHA pollution
statute. My style icon was one part Molly Ringwald, circa Pretty in Pink and two parts fat girl who shops at
Target. To describe me as uncool would be an understatement. See also, “people
pleaser” which included but was not limited to my parents; neighbors; and
teachers. I was a good student, I did my homework, I made the honor roll, and I
didn’t get into any trouble. I also had precious few friends and was a giant
dork, but hey – no one’s perfect, right? I was a freshman at a co-educational
and very Catholic high school and with the exception of an incident where I was
caught kissing a Jewish boy, I was a complete angel. There is no need for you
to consult my mom for input on this. Trust me. I was a damn angel.
In 1987, we
didn’t know much about homosexuality. For most of us, our only real education
about what it meant to be gay came from Three's
Company, which
introduced us to gay jokes and living in the closet. We learned that landlords
are intolerant of co-educational cohabitation and often exhibit homophobic
tendencies, especially if their name is Roper or Furley. My parents didn’t have
gay friends and although in hindsight, I think a lesbian couple lived across
the alley from us, we didn’t acknowledge it back then. As a kid in a very
Catholic high school, the only thing I knew about homosexuality is that it had
the word “sex” in it which obviously meant it would send you directly to hell,
without passing go and without collecting $200. If you were a homosexual male
attending a very Catholic high school in Minneapolis in 1987, you were
considered weird – nothing more, nothing less. And you probably kept your
gayness to yourself.
1987 was the
first time I unwittingly dated a gay guy. It wasn’t the last time and I
remained very popular with closeted gay males for the next decade. For most, I
was the last girl they dated before deciding to come out already . . . a fact
that likely had nothing to do with me but took a toll on my fragile self-esteem
nonetheless. I met a lot of parents; attended a lot of family functions; and
ultimately learned the importance of a well-defined brow arch. (The secret is
waxing and tweezing.) The difference between 1987’s date and those that
followed was what motivated my date in the first place.
The homecoming
dance was kind of a big deal. As a gigantic nerd, I assumed I would spend the
evening at home with my nose in a book and a giant bag of Reese’s pieces at my
side. It never even occurred to me that some boy would ask me to the dance. But
that’s what happened. His name was Chad and he was what we called weird back in
the 80’s. He was that kid with the
thick glasses and the high-pitched voice who made everyone roll their eyes when
he spoke in class . . . and for reasons unknown to me to this day, he asked me
to be his date to the dance. I really, really didn’t want to go with him. If
I’m honest, I really didn’t want to go to the dance, period. With my two left
feet and Elaine Benes moves, I’m best served in the audience,
not on the floor.
Of course, I’d
never been asked on a real date before, unless we count riding my bike to meet
the forbidden Jewish boy in the park for braces-encumbered kissing sessions. My
desire to not spend one-on-one time with Chad was overcome by my desire to not
disappoint – and so I said yes to a date I didn’t want to go on, with a boy I
could barely tolerate because I’m a people pleaser. I bought a formal dress –
but as a gal of a certain size and on a budget, my choices were limited and I
ultimately selected what I can only describe as a shimmery, peach-hued bridesmaid
dress reject that I paired with clip-on earrings (I eschew extra holes in one’s
head) and very, very flat shoes. Think Drew Barrymore as “Josie Grossey” in Never Been Kissed to get a visual.
Because we were
14 years old and also a pair of losers, our parents drove us on our ill-fated
date. He took me to dinner at a place that was way, way too hip for me in a
neighborhood that was overrun with hipster doofuses even in 1987. I’m sure we
talked. I know we ate but all I can remember is feeling incredibly
uncomfortable. Eventually, dinner was over and someone’s parents picked us up
and deposited us to the dance.
It was a
typical high school dance . . . a decorated cafeteria, George Michael, Whitney
Houston, and Roxette songs in the background, and gender-segregated gaggles of
teenagers in every corner. I can’t speak for what the boys were doing, but in
the girls’ corner, we giggled, gossiped and waited for the boys to ask us to
dance – because apparently, in 1987, we couldn’t ask a boy ourselves.
Eventually, Chad wandered over and asked me to slow dance. Had I not been a
people pleaser, I would have given him a hearty “no thanks” and continued on
with my evening. Alas, that was not the case.
The song was Atlantic Starr’s, Always,
and the dancing was poor. Very poor. It was a lot of shuffle-footed swaying. I
tried desperately not to make eye contact with my weird date, and I prayed to
every Catholic saint I knew that this night would end quickly and painlessly. They
were obviously otherwise occupied because before the song came to an end, I
found myself being groped and slobbered on by Chad. Bad touch! Bad touch! I
wanted to break his arms, smash his face in, and run as far away as I could as
fast as my feet in impractical shoes could take me. But instead of doing any of
those things, I merely stood there in all my people-pleasing glory, and waited
for it to be over.
I don’t
remember much else about that dance – or if I ever even spoke to Chad again. I
left our very Catholic high school after freshman year only to return with my
tail between my legs as a junior, but by then, Chad was gone and no one ever
spoke of him again. It wasn’t until several years later that I realized Chad
wasn’t merely a creepy weirdo but rather, a misunderstood gay kid in a very
Catholic high school just trying to get by – and he inadvertently chose a girl
who didn’t have the word “no” in her vocabulary as his partner in crime.
From Big Bird
and Snuffy to the closeted gay boys in a very Catholic high school in the 1980’s
to everyone I encounter who is suffering since . . . I’m a secret people
pleaser. Worse, I cannot stand to see another human being hurting. A friend
once told me that I collected the walking wounded the way little boys collect
baseball cards. As I unpack this truth about myself – both inside and outside
my therapist’s office – I can’t help but wonder if this is such a bad thing. If
I stop being a secret people pleaser, will I still be me?
© 2016 Princess D.
No comments:
Post a Comment