a friend’s weekly panicked email to me

This week, in a selfless show of selflessness, I’m giving a dear friend of mine pride of place on my weekly panicked email. She deserves it. After getting hit by a taxi in New York City, ending up in the ER and then bed ridden at home – seriously why did shit like this never happen to Carrie Bradshaw or Blaire Waldorf? – she went to a stand up comedy show, and then wrote me the following panicked email that pretty much echoes my thought process every time I allow myself in public. (click to expand)

an exercise in optimism (kind of)

A friend of mine, okay… a few friends, FINE, most people, tell me I’m too negative. This is not a new criticism. Once, when I was in middle school my atheist parents sent me, a tom boy, to an all girls Christian summer camp. Disaster ensued.

I hated everything about it.

I hated the tribal mentality.

At the camp we were separated into tribes named after Native Americans. Each tribe had a corresponding T-Shirt that we would have to wear every day. What sadistic fiend came up with this idea?

“You know, I don’t think middle school girls are bitchy enough. I think we should help them really institutionalize it by separating them into  teams.”

“Great idea, but how will we decide these teams? Common interests? Or they could just be random, we could count off.”

“No, no we should choose teams based on looks. It’s simple. Elegant even.“

No, I’m not making this up, what tribe you were in was based on how you looked. Which meant your coloring. Which meant my sister and I, along with all of the black, hispanic, asian, and other were Iriquois. All of the blondes were redskins.

I hated the matching braids.

I hated the shaving circles and the not-yet-ironic-but-too-late-to-be-actually-cool Spice Girls listening. [I know I know this blog post was supposed to be positive but bear with me. I’m new at this]

And I especially hated the Jesus songs complete with cute-sy dance moves. These were the salt on my wounds. The screws on the torture device. I felt like I was at a Maoist labor camp during the cultural revolution, only my fellow prisoners were singing joyously and thanking God instead of exhibiting rational amounts of pain and agony.

One day we had a Bible studies session about complaining – The Bible’s postion: don’t do it. Afterwards this blonde redskin said it was all because of me. Did I know that I complain. non. stop? To be honest, I was legitimately bewildered. Me? A complainer? I hadn’t noticed. I was too busy hating everything about this place.

All this is to say that maybe I can be a tad negative. So, without further ado, an exercise in optimism.