Bad hair. Big glasses. Head-gear. Way too much knowledge of Deep Space 9.
Oh, and the tendency towards wearing styles five years outdated didn't help.
See what I mean? Geek.
Say what you will about my geek-ery. I can take it. What I lacked in high school popularity I have more than made up for in internet stalk-ability. Even though I was nowhere near the top of the social ladder back at ol' SCHS, I held my own. I was neither thoroughly detested or thoroughly fantasized-about. I was funny. Bratty. A know-it-all. A geek. And I also had another title to my credit: Best Friend To The Cute Girl.
That's right. In the world of cliche high school movies, I was always the sidekick. If life were an episode of Scooby Doo, I'd be Velma. Unequivocally. And while Daphne was all the rage with high school boys, college provided me with ample nerd-loving Velma worshippers to boost my ego. No need for pity here.
I can cite countless friendships that have taken on this dynamic.
Take my longtime "old bean", Amy Wirsig, for example. Her blonde hair, pouty lips, and knack for remaining 100 pounds even despite eating Doritos and fries everyday for lunch left me stunned and boys heartbroken. Throw in the fact that the girl is annoyingly humble, and that's a shadow just big enough to leave me barely noticeable in grades 9 and 10. But it didn't really matter much to me. I was happy to have a friend who understood-- nay, encouraged-- my wit and snark. To date, Amy lives all the way across the world in Laos, and I miss her (and her shadow) dearly.
Flash forward a few years to my first day at a new job. I had spent all morning getting ready for the day, wearing pumps so high you could measure my aspirations by them. It was my first "real" post-college job, and I was thrilled at the prospect of my own cubicle. And don't get me started on the free coffee in the cafeteria... I could have died a happy woman when it was announced I needed to get my picture taken for my VERY OWN employee badge! It was like getting a new lunchbox at the start of the school year. And then enter Whitney, a short-haired, speed-walking tornado of a pipsqueak who took one look at me and said to her friend, "Who is that girl? Her shoes are sas-sy."
That was the start of something big. Who would have thought someone with no more than five feet of height to her credit could cast such a long shadow? Funny as heck. Smart as a whip. Terrific at anything she does. She's currently carving out her life in the Big Apple, where starlets like her belong. It's probably for the best that she's not around anymore. I don't think this one-horse town knew what to do with the two of us...
And those are only two examples. I have an endless supply of friends who have started their own non-profits raising funds for African kids to go to school (actually, I only have one of those). Or the friend who sings like a diva, but devotes her life to Young Life kids. Or the gorgeous friend who could be modeling but instead spent three months on a leper colony in India. Or the friend who excels at everything she lays a finger on, whether it's playing the piano or crunching numbers. Let's not forget the friend whose deadpan humor (and ability to discard a dead pet) heals a hurting heart. How about the friend whose endless list of talents gets overlooked because of her extreme generosity.
I could go on.
How do I keep attracting these friends? What do they see in me? Maybe it's the geek in me rearing her ugly, lazy-eyed, unibrowed head, but I don't get it. The only thing I can attribute this phenomenon to is the fact that I'm totally committed to going the extra mile. If you think my Indian accent is funny, wait until I bust it out in a department meeting-- in front of my Indian boss.
What can I say? I'm a shadow-dweller. A very happy, very vocal, very thankful, very gorgeous shadow-dweller. No self-esteem issues here. Just appreciation for my good friends with their long shadows, and for finally having my head-gear off.
:)
