My mother has a friend whom I’ll call Delores. Since she has on rare occasion read this blog, I think it’s safer to stick with a psuedonym. Although in truth I kind of wish I could confront her about all this.
Because Delores is a Mean Girl. Here she is, over 70, and she’s still cruel, gossipy and bullying.
My parents were here over the weekend on their way to Florida and Mom mentioned something Delores had said and done–another anecdote about how a septugenarian housewife made other people in her social circle feel small and unwanted–and I confessed that I thought she was mean.
I found the whole thing discouraging because I realised then and there that we never do grow out of all those petty games. That no matter how old I get there will always be another woman my age who is the Queen Bee with the sharp stinger.
It doesn’t affect me that much, because years of living at the wrong end of those people has given me pretty thick callouses that make dealing with their shenanigans mostly painless. But the idea that these games never change is still discouraging.