November 4- The "Snob Card"

I wasn't the prettiest girl in school. I wasn't the richest. I wasn't the desire of every boy with zits and hormones that shuffled down the hallways. I was just Susannah. I was the funny girl that got in trouble quite often for talking in class or cracking a joke at a teacher's expense. I had a lot of friends in school. I associated with different cliques- and I had a really great high school experience.

But I witnessed snobbery throughout my school days. I watched girls giggle at me because my unruly hair frizzed in the humidity. I watched them snicker because I was the tallest girl this side of the Mississippi River. I watched them not take me seriously because I usually had a joke or a one-liner full of sarcasm for every situation.

I grew up in an upper middle class family- in a nice neighborhood with name brand clothes and cool parents. But, for some unknown reason, I never measured up to a select group of snooty witches. I didn't know why I didn't measure up, but I just didn't.

**Ironically, War's "Why Can't We Be Friends" just came on my iTunes shuffle**

I'd be lying if I said that I didn't wonder what I'd done "wrong" to be excluded from this select group, but I eventually shrugged it off and quit caring. I was wasting my time wondering why those girls didn't like me when I had plenty of other people that did like me.

My father was a wonderful man with many friends on each end of the spectrum. When he passed away in 1992, his funeral was one of the largest that our town had ever seen, and side by side, waiting to console my mother and our family, was the poorest farmer in the county and the most prosperous businessmen. My father knew no enemies. He spoke a bad word of no one. He had more friends than any person I've ever known. Rich and poor. He was their friend. And they all loved him.

I tried to be like my father. I really tried to be friendly to everyone. I didn't care if that girl lived in a shack on the east side of town. I treated  her the same way that I treated the girls with rich bloodlines and BMWs.

I smiled. I waved. I was friendly.

When I graduated high school, I was sure that snobbery would be in my rear-view. I was on to bigger and better things. I was leaving my small hometown, and the witches were welcome to stay behind  and continue their snobbery for generations to come. Their children would attend the same schools that we attended- and they would stick their noses in the air at regular middle-class kids like myself.

Because God-forbid they move to another town where no one knew them or adhered to their sense of entitlement and they ended up being a nobody. (Which is exactly what would've happened.)

My husband and I started a life of our own in a community that, I'm learning, is also rampant with a different kind of snob- the thirty-something mother that has decided to form a random clique of other thirty- something mothers- and some thirty-something mothers just aren't allowed in their sacred clique of Scentsy parties and drunkenness on their respective patios.

They waltz around in their monogrammed yoga pants with their Starbucks cups, and they give the stink eye to anyone that isn't in their little group. Despite the fact that their children play with yours, they refuse to play with you. They refuse to smile when you bump into them at the ladies' boutique downtown. They will burn in hell before they eat the Chess Pie that you donated to the school bake sale.

I have no idea why this handful of women look at outsiders like a turd in a punch bowl. I have no idea why they look at me like this. I think my house is prettier than theirs. My car is newer than theirs. My daughter's clothes are just as nice as their daughter's clothes- and yet, I might as well be hooking on weekends and living in a box in a tree.

I'm not bragging about my home, my car, my children's clothing. Those things don't even matter. If I had to, I'd be content in a quaint home and driving a purple 1987 Chevrolet Beretta- which I would call Raspberry Beret.

But, we do have nice things, and I'm not going to be ashamed of that. My husband is an incredibly hard worker. We have been blessed more than we deserve. I am fortunate enough to be able to stay at home with my children while my husband puts food and Nutella on the table. This doesn't mean that my family is better than anyone else's. I'm not a snob. I wave. I smile. I try to strike up conversation. I'm not ashamed of our blessings- but I'm not going to use them as a source of entitlement.

I have a wonderful group of friends/neighbors/thirty-something mothers in our community. My friends are loyal, hilarious, beautiful, wonderful women that don't walk around all high and mighty. As we drink our glasses of wine on our respective patios, we don't really give a shit that you didn't speak to us at the football game.

And we've concluded that the only requirement for being in your clique is to be a bitch- so we don't qualify anyway.  

The "snob card" shouldn't be played in adulthood, ladies. Although sticking your nose in the air does help to smooth and conceal that sagging turkey neck, it's not a good look for you.

Grow up.

The rest of us have.

See you tomorrow, NaBloPoMo.