The Evolution of Petty

I suppose you could call 12-year-old me a few cards short of a full deck.

Not the sharpest knife in the drawer.

Completely oblivious, like sitting-in -class –glassy- eyes oblivious, what the hell could a 12-year-old be thinking that hard about.

Something like that.

Before I was cool enough to be socially shamed I lived almost exclusively in my head. I had an imaginary friend until I was 14, secretly wrote stories about things that I can’t remember anymore, wrote daily in my Hello Kitty diary (I still have it. Riveting stuff) and was frequently caught talking to myself.

I actually don’t know which came first, the “weirdness” or the unpopularity, though the two generously lent to each other. What middle-schooler wants to hang out with the kid who pulls on her edges and only looks up when spoken to?

Not one that I knew.

Because I was so socially inept I didn’t learn the subtle nuances that have divulged into what we call “petty” today. I didn’t know about reading tones, or inclusionary remarks, or noticing little eyerolls (though to be fair, we did NOT skimp on the eye rolls in my middle school. You were getting at least 2.5 seconds of eye white AND a lip smack, partna). I pretty much expected that everyone hated me, thought that I couldn’t trust anyone but family, that my real life was hot garbage juice and that my imagination was a better place to be anyway. Also, I was super focused on my schooling and grades. No time to fuss about the girl next to me wearing the same hair clips as I was.

But then high school happened.

Gotdamn high school.

There were more kids, different styles, new boys (heeey) and AWL THE PUBERTY. Suddenly, there were kids around me that thought I was kinda cool. I wasn’t super weird. I had boobs. My allowance got raised to $10 a week. I was a less-weird, boobed, baller shot caller now, and I had to learn the ropes fast. I already had girlfriends. Now I needed a boyfriend, a car, a cell phone, stuff from Claire’s, and apparently lots and lots of lip gloss. While before I had been totally satisfied sequestered into my head, now my imagination and ignorance to social rules was unacceptable. I needed to get to work. Like yesterday.

I became obsessed with tight shirts, lace up jeans, and shellacking my lips. I watched makeover movies and read LOTS of Sweet Valley High books (yes I was that kid, hush up). I subscribed to Seventeen magazine and got way into makeup. I hung out at the mall, went to teen clubs, and wore high heels to run errands.

Pft.

It was at the height of this confusion and insecurity that I was awakened to the “petty” (though back then we called it bogus, shady, or shiesty) of friendhood. I learned when to “oooo” and “whaaat” and “oh uh uh” at certain phrases, pretending that my slick-lipped ass knew what anyone was talking about. I didn’t. It was obvious, especially since I didn’t have much drama of my own to report. I had a boyfriend but we were pretty much drama free, no matter how much I tried to play up disagreements we’d had to my poor, bored friends.

I had to do better.

In college, arguably the most insecure time of my life, I really got the hang of it. I was so close to what I considered “normal” that I could taste it. There were beautiful girls on my campus that I could model myself after. I got a conventionally cute boyfriend. I did my hair the right way. I dressed the right way. I was so obsessed with being my version of normal that I stopped creating anything else altogether. I stopped reading, stopped writing, stopped thinking about things too deeply. I got a little job and a little apartment and a little group of friends. I was normal. And unhappy as fuck.

Enter full-fleged, authentic, bonafide, Real Housewives of (pick any damn city at this point) petty. Ohhhh boy.

Anyone I dated got it. My friends got it (although they didn’t know, if I found myself overanalyzing a friend’s actions I would avoid them completely). Coworkers, teachers, student workers, people who knew people that I knew, yall, ANYONE could get it. My sister both heard about and received the brunt of it. LAWD. Everyone close to me had to act and speak and believe the right way, or we’d have a passive aggressive problem.

More passive than aggressive, though.

70/30.

It was EXHAUSTING. I’m not sure I have every felt lower than when I felt the need to command everyone around me.

There was a point, right before I upped and moved to Chicago, and I just kinda let go. It’s like my hand slipped off an already slippery railing and I was finally falling into the unknown that had been pulling at me for decades.

Back into the unknown, I should say, because years of living on my own in a city and time when weird is in has brought me right back to talking to myself, odd fashion, creating furiously, and utter obliviousness. I carried some things from my normal days with me, an obsession with makeup and bright colors, tight clothes, and a little touch of edge, namely. I’m like…formed or something.

It’s weird. And it’s bliss mostly.

Thankfully I have friends who I don’t have to decode and who are delightfully weird themselves so, it works. My life works. My petty-sense doesn’t tingle anymore, and my focus is on my contribution, not the subtleties of the people communicating around me. I’ve grown past it, yay look at me in well-adjusted adulthood.

That is, of course, until a bout of insecurity or instability hits me, when I feel like the big stuff is too much to handle, and so I focus on the little stuff again.

Like what was that look she gave me before she said that thing.

And why did he look like that when I said hi to him he didn’t look like that yesterday.

Why hasn’t he texted me all day.

Did that email have a “tone”.

Do they talk about me when I’m not around.

Why does this person never like my stuff on social media.

Little things that could very well mean things but that do me no good to over analyze.

I have to realign myself when I get like that. Thankfully I can recognize it now. I talk to my close friend/neighbor/supervisor and tell her “I’m being silly” and she says “But you have the right to be upset about stuff”, which makes me feel less petty. Then I talk to my sister who says “this is unlike you” and we talk about what’s actually going on, that I’m stressed about my future and my legacy. And when I’ve figured that out, when I’m finally focused on what I want for my life, then I don’t care who cuts their eyes at me when I walk past anymore.

I’m still petty, I think. It’s addictive; it makes me feel like I am in control. It makes me feel powerful and observant, and it is a great distraction. It’s even fun, putting pieces together, figuring out what little innuendo might mean, treating someone differently based on what you’ve put together and then watching them react.

It can be delicious.

But ultimately it makes me more nervous and anxious than the thing I’m running from, and I fold back into my mind palace, and forget that anyone else exists.