“You could be so much more,” says Edward Lewis, staring into the eyes of the Pretty Woman.
“People put you down enough you start to believe it,” she replies.
“I think you are a very bright and very special woman,” he says with an authority on “bright” and “special.”
“The bad stuff is easier to believe. You ever notice that?” she says back.
I think they conspired. — They must have talked about it and decided not to include me on the trip they were planning. — Or maybe they didn’t consider me at all. I’m not sure which is worse.
I’ll never know for sure, but I think they were tired of hearing me complain. My older sister had just broken my heart, and I couldn’t stop talking about how much I hated her for it.
Remember that episode of Sex and the City, the one with Bon Jovi… Ug, the name of it is on the tip of my tongue. — Anyway, Carrie is obsessed with talking about Mr. Big. The girls can’t take it anymore. They tell their friend that they love her, but they don’t know how to help her. She needs to see a professional. Later in the ep, after sleeping with Bon Jovi, Carrie has a breakthrough: She chooses the wrong men. Bon Jovi is gone, but the foursome is still kicking into their fifties with a whole new HBO series in the works. (Oy, these gals won’t quit.)
I think that instead of saying, “Hey friend, you seem to be going through something. We want to be here for you, but honestly, we just don’t know how to help you. And we think maybe you should talk to someone, you know, maybe like a therapist or something,” they decided to stop being my friend.
The trip solidified their triple BFF status. The three of them lived together for years in New York City after we graduated. For some reason, I still wanted to be their friend friends. — Maybe I was in denial of how much they hurt me. After all, we were my camp friends! I bunked with these girls for over a decade. I introduced them to each other. Holding on to them seemed easier than trying to make new friends.
But they moved on without me. So eventually I moved on without them.
Today, I don’t talk to a single person I went to camp with.… — Ok, that’s a wrap on that. You don’t know this, but I’ve just spent the last 20 minutes following their friendship on Facebook. Now I’m bleeding; the emotional wound reopened.
When was the last time those girls thought about me? When was the last time they spoke my name to each other? Do they ever feel bad for so coldly discarding me as a friend? I think they knew that they hurt me. But I don’t think they cared. As 38-year-old women, are they still so mean?
F*ck. What if it’s me? What if I am just the worst? I mean, those girls are not the only example I have of failing friendships. I’ve been dumped several times before and since. “It’s not me. It’s you,” is always what they say.
“No,” I said, the last time this happened. “It’s not me! It’s you.” But the friendship was already over. Defending my honor, I walked away with my head high. But I was really f*cking sad. I loved her. I trusted her.
This is hard to write. Now I’m pouring salt and lime juice on that open wound. Who’s got the tequila?
Tequila! Maybe that’s what I need to loosen up a bit. When did I become so awkward? Sometime around 2019 when T stopped being my friend but wouldn’t tell me why.
I am a shadow of myself, too scared to make a full appearance. I don’t want to scare any new friends away. This backfires, of course. In the shadows, no one can see me so they move on without me. And the cycle continues.
You are not that girl anymore, Cha Cha.
I am not that girl anymore.