Trigger Warning: cheap jewelry, mean girls, self-sabotage. I am a thief. My photo is just there to the right, so you should probably make a citizen’s arrest. To this day, I still owe the Gift Corner 21 cents for a ring I bought, to join a mean girl club I didn’t like, all in the name of belonging.

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One ring to rule them all

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It started at Kathy’s birthday party. I was a pity invite cuz our moms were friends. My outlier status was solidified when I arrived in shorts and saw the cake was coconut-pineapple which I surreptitiously fed to the cocker spaniel.

Then Kathy stood, twirled her skirt, flashed a ring on her hand saying “All Hail Flower Power Girls! I am Rose!”

“Violet!” said the next girl, who also twirled.

“Lily!” said the next and twirled.

“Tulip! Jasmine! Marigold!”

The spinning skirts, edict of flower names and bedazzled hands reached me with a cold stop.

“What are Flower Power Girls?” I asked.

Marigold, henceforth known as Meanie, said, “We’re a super cool group that wears skirts, has sleepovers every weekend and pick our husbands. Wanna be like us?”

Wait, husband? Humm, I kissed Donnie Walker behind the cedar tree once. Sleepover was a synonym for a series of naps in a strange bed. I avoided skirts like confession, they made bike riding impossible.

“Well?” Meanie asked.

The answer to that question was no. Hard no. Unequivocally no. These were not my people. Then I blurted, “Sure! How?”

“Go to the Gift Corner and buy a flower ring,” said Meanie.

“Really?” I said.

“Yup. Also don’t eat bananas.”

My intuition screamed, ‘Run!’ But my need for acceptance in all the wrong places ultimately won out. I was determined to have friends, no matter the cost.

Problem: I was clean outta cash.

As kids, we requested money only after tasks like stacking three full cords of hardwood, arranged with stonemason precision to survive a monsoon. Then we’d mumble, “Could I have some money, please?” My dad would stare at the sky long enough for you to question your existence, and say “Do you need it, or want it?”

The next morning, I explained my friendless dilemma, all due to a lack of bling. “So,” he lowered the wheelbarrow, “for friends you need a ring?”

“Yes.”

He let life be my teacher and handed me 3 bucks. I walked away dreaming of sleepovers, bananaless breakfasts and my new husband.

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My precious

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The Yum Yum Tree and Gift Corner was a magical combo store in Saranac Lake, with a few of my favorite things: flaky croissants, chocolates, colored pens, horse novels, and animal figurines glued on cardstock.

“Well,” said Mrs. Frendenburgh, “no books today!” taking out the glimmering tray of bijouterie.

“The daisy ring, please.” I said.

“Ok dear,that’s $3.21 with tax.”

Damn the king. Tax. “Umm,” I searched my linty pockets in despair. The door jingled and a group of women called, “Mary, tea time!”

Generous as the Holy Mother herself, Mrs. Frendenburgh said, “Tell you what, bring the rest this week. Say hi to your folks.”

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Pearls before swine

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I showed my family my precious ring, and we all pretended to like it. By Monday my ring finger was green. No matter, I had friends! In my sister’s skirt I walked to school wondering who’d invite me over first.

From the LaPan Highway overpass I could see my new besties outside of school. I ran down the hill waving my hand. “I am Daisy!” I said, and twirled.

The Flower Power Club stared at me like an agitated quiver of cobras. Meanie slithered forward.

“You thought we’d actually let you join the club?” Cue villainous cackle. “Kathy’s mom made us be nice. Go away, loser!”

I stood like a struck match.

The chatter of a few hundred kids faded. The bell rang. My ring hand hung in the air. A piece of humiliation snapped off inside me.

It’s easy to blame those girls as bad ‘other,’ but I was at fault. I knew the risk of bonding with people who thrive on exclusion. Were they mean? Sure. Mean girls can burn a monkey’s hair from a mile away. I had my moments growing up; plenty of monkeys hid from me.

The floating humiliation sealed like armor over my heart. My courage severed and vulnerability tapped out, I sulked for what felt like weeks, but it was probably three days. Einstein’s theory of time dilation includes time crawling by when you’re pierced by the double arrows of poor decisions and loneliness.

Then, I met tree-climbing, banana-eating Holly Martin, who had no plans for her nuptials and was a great friend.

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To thine own self be true

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I relive parts of this story often. I catch myself bartering authenticity for acceptance. I stop when an image of me standing at school in a dumb skirt, with a green ring finger.

When we tailor ourselves to please others the seams rip apart. Instead, slip into your skin, find your best self and hold on.

If you lose sight of yourself and stumble, let the scrapes and scars be your roadmap home.