I Can't Befriend Perfect Pollies

When I was in high school, I had a lot of friends. I was in a lot of activities and had a fair amount of fun. Of course, I still felt terribly insecure. Who doesn't, in high school? But because I had a lot of close friends, I knew that breathtakingly beautiful girls still felt insecure, that brilliant girls had moments of doubt, that the talented and funny girls still spent time crying in their rooms. I never had any illusions that anyone was without faults or angst or embarrassment.

Until I had eleventh grade English with. . .hmmm, let's call her Polly. She was attractive and smart and very popular, all of which didn't bother me. What bothered me was that she never had a bad hair day, or said something stupid in class, or even dropped her pen. When we had to write an essay about our two most important possessions, one of Polly 's was her iron. I mean, I still don't iron and this 16 year old girl ironed her whole family's clothes (in addition to sports teams, good grades, lots of friends, etc.). Polly never got stains on her clothes, never seemed to sweat or get flustered or feel sad. . .she just glided down the hall, kind to everyone, living in her bubble of perfection.

Of course, I've met women like her since high school - Erika in college, Jen at my first teaching job. But no one really matched up to the Real Polly until I moved back to Bergen County and tried to meet other mothers. Every time I see a mother in the park, I swear she's been taking lessons from Polly.

These other mothers never have their children's handprints on their shirts. They have lost of their baby weight and wear a size I couldn't even wear before I had baby weight. Their clothes are fashionable - and ironed. Their hair is styled (or at least not in my usual ratty ponytail). Their children never fluster or frustrate them. They seem serene and organized as their children willingly eat organic tofu cookies. Standing near them, I feel the exact same way as I did sitting next to Polly in English class.

I remind myself that I am an adult now. I tell myself that it's pretty pathetic for a 16 year old girl to count an IRON as one of her prized possessions. I explain to Hot Guy that the women at the park probably don't talk about the things I like to talk about anyway (books, politics, sex lives of acquaintances). I tell myself that no one is perfect and no one's life is perfect - no matter what it looks like to an outsider. I lecture myself about being a kinder, less judgmental person. But I still don't want to befriend anyone of these Pollies.

However, as soon as one of them shows up with stains on her shirt, messy hair or pretzels for snack, I'll be all over her. I promise.