Queen M

In high school, Madeline was the Blair Waldorf of our private school. She always wore fashionable clothes, with headbands, and had a taste for high school social politics that always left me slightly suspicious of her. The family was from New York City, and ironically moved to the tiny town of Manhattan Montana. Still, they managed to succeed in having a house large enough that I could never entirely find her bedroom without wandering for 20 minutes and hoping to God I didn’t stumble into a section I didn’t belong. The women of the family were all in great shape, with designer clothes and thick brunette hair. The men were well built football stars with perfect teeth. Her father was an instrumental part of Wall Street- a man who always wore suits, constantly had a cell phone in hand, and beautifully styled graying hair. My invitation to her 16^th birthday party sealed my selection into the “in” crowd, and I went half crazy trying to find something in my closet that wasn’t an ode to punk rock. I even managed to drive myself all the way to her house with a cast on my wrist, in a borrowed car, through a giant snowstorm.

Later in the year she discovered I had become completely twitter-painted with a good-looking rebellious boy, (who had a motorcycle, and a fast car, and played the guitar, and the drums, and was constantly in detention… gah, some things about girls never change…). She promptly weaseled herself into his car for a ride, (because of course, the most popular girl in school couldn’t find a ride), and asked him out. He later relayed this information to me in amusement, the typical high school boy that couldn’t see what was right in front of him… namely the brown haired girl named Ashley who was trying ridiculously hard to listen and not think about that shaggy blonde hair… the way it always got into his eyes… those incredibly blue eyes… that lopsided grin he had when something was really funny… those fingers that never stopped strumming the guitar while he was talking… and God I hope I don’t have something in my braces. Yup. First love is a killer. And the most popular girl in school asked him out 24 hours after I had finally admitted my crush to her. I could have strangled her during volleyball practice, and vividly imagined a fantastically worded closing statement after I kicked her ass, that ended in the entire high school applauding my ballsy move with sexy boy sweeping me off my feet while I spiked the ball into her cute little nose.    

Unfortunately, the most I could muster was a cool avoidance of Madeline for approximately a week, until I realized that my crush had in fact turned her down- and thus, I momentarily had the upper hand. Then she started telling me “I was just sooo cute”. [Note to Men: Girls do not want to be called cute unless over the age of 60, or caught doing something potentially embarrassing. Hot? Sure. Sexy? Yes. Beautiful? Even better.] ‘Cute’ was condescending. It implied I was somehow her minion with pigtails. But I choked down my rebellion, and smiled back. Because really, I was tired of not being noticed, and Madeline was my ticket to parties, and dates, and for once, feeling important.

By Senior Year I had decided that complete and utter anarchy was really the only way to live, screw Madeline and her minions. And much to my chagrin, they only liked me more. After high school and inevitable heartbreak, I tried my best to sink myself into the counter-culture- wearing boys clothes so people wouldn’t think I was cute, perfecting destruction, flying the middle finger to society. Fences that eventually separated me from everyone and everything, while I wandered aimlessly around Europe trying to find what Ashley Nettles was supposed to be.

I ran into Madeline at a wedding this Summer. She’s living back in New York, dating some Ivy League prince. And you know? I still like her. Because Madeline will always be Madeline, and there’s some comfort in that. I, of course, had ridiculous hair that stood 8 inches off my head, (for once, not my idea, but that of the bored hairdresser). But you know, that’s me. And thankfully, I’m okay with that. Today, I’m still good friends with the girls I met on a trampoline in 6^th grade- nasty perm and all. One of my closest friends is a girl I never really bothered much with in high school because she annoyed me. It’s funny how things change, and how people mature. There will always be Madelines and Blairs in this world. But they exist because they allowed themselves to be what they wanted to be, and others accepted it.

Today, the lady at the grocery store carded me for some wine.

“Oh- yeah! I recognize this ID, sorry- you just always look so different”. I wasn’t sure where to be offended, that she knew my ID, (I don’t buy that much wine! Right?), or that I look crappy some days and not others.

“Uhm yeah… some days I have time to shower, and do make-up… obviously not today” I muttered while I furiously swiped my credit card.

“Oh no- that’s not what I meant! I mean, like some days you’re in a suit wearing glasses with your hair pulled back, and some days in a flowy dress with long hair, and then you have that NOFX t-shirt…” Apparently I have a fan at the grocery store. Either that or I have got to start buying a larger quanity of groceries at a time.

So I’m a little quirky. But that’s ok. Because my friends accept it. It’s a good feeling to just be me, a me that evolves a little every day. Some days a bit less elegantly than others. Welcome to Life.