I had a conversation today with my good friend The Guilt Goddess. We were on her front porch and I was getting ready to leave after brightening her day with my presence. It went something like this:

Me: [blah blah blah something or other leading up to]... me being so popular and everything.

Her: You mention your popularity a lot.

Me, shrugging: Probably. I am rather proud of it.

Her: But you don't have to, you know. You can be popular without announcing it all the time.

Me: ... But what's the fun in that? Besides, you're probably more popular than I am, or at least as popular. Maybe. So it's not like I'm bragging.

Her: Sure, but I don't have to tell people.

Me: You just did.

Her, trying hard not to throw something at me.

Me: I'm not that bad. I mean, I kid around, but I'm pretty humble, really.

Her: Oh my God. Did you just say you're --

Me: In fact, I think I'm probably the humblest person I know.

Her, rolling her eyes.

Me, having an epiphany: ... I bet that's what makes me so popular. My incredible humility...

Her, laughing because she can't control how much she adores me: Get out of here!

She loves me, that one.


Popularity. I throw the word around a lot, but frankly I've never looked up the definition. Let's see what the dictionary says, shall we?

pop·u·lar·i·ty

n.

The quality or state of being popular, especially the state of being widely admired, accepted, or sought after.

Interesting stuff. Let's break this down and see if I, Humblest Woman Alive, fits the bill and can grab herself a head cheerleader outfit.

Am I widely admired? Tough call. If by "widely" we mean on a global scale, like Ghandi, then no. If, however, "widely" implies the two little gremlins who thought I was Queen of Bosstown because I made them some peppermint-scented playdough this afternoon, then yes. In the wide open space of my kitchen, I am admired. Check.

Accepted. Well, that depends on who you're talking to. There are some people who don't accept me. In fact, they downright don't like me. But I tend not to like them, either, and I learned in math class that two negatives cancel each other out and become a positive. Therefore, they don't count. And, when I eventually take over the world by being really fabulous, I'll probably decree anyone who doesn't think I'm a splendid human being a mutant, and send them to live in the badlands where their opinions won't matter. They can eat raw meat and build huts out of shunned fashion items, like pleather and legwarmers (those should have stayed in the 80's as they have no place in this millennium) Therefore, whether I'm accepted at face value or because I strike potential fear into the heart of naysayers, I think we have this part covered. Check.

Am I sought after? Hell yes I am! People seek after me all the time: they want spare change, or would like me to pay my cellphone bill, or come find me to say that my child is screaming because I accidentally left him in the other aisle at the grocery store and he's terrified... And speaking of children, my (still three, because I haven't lost any at the store yet) gremlins are forever seeking after me so I can make them food and settle arguments and the like.

Very, very check.

I guess that settles that, then.


I was never a popular girl, and it only grew worse with every passing grade. For example, I had the opportunity - nay, the privilege - in grade 7 of being the biggest loser in my high school. The year started off with me being gifted the nickname of "Zenji" due to:

A) Having a lot of acne, and
B) Being "dog ugly" like Benji the dog, who was actually pretty cute if you ask me

As you can imagine, walking down the hallways was a very pleasant experience. That may be why I started keeping liquor in my locker. It made going to and from class a little more tolerable. Being slightly buzzed Zenji was better than being un-liquored-Zenji.

At least, until Zenji ended up in rehab a year or so later, but I digress.

That fantastic year ended with having hairspray sprayed upon the back of my sweater, followed by a fun game of "Let's see who's match will light Zenji on fire." Someone won, but forgive me for not remembering which of the two girls it was. I was busy stopping, dropping and rolling. Thankfully there was no scarring, unless you count the emotional kind.

Anyway, the point of that unpleasant walk down memory lane is to provide enough background so as the reader understands my unhealthy lifelong desire for popularity. I always figured that, if I were simply a really cool chick that everyone liked, then life would be good. I would get what I want, I would be instantly happy, and the world would be my oyster.

I never did care much for pearls, though...


So, Zenji grew up, and eventually, through a series of important transformations brought on by that icky thing called "maturation," became The Maven. And, as we've established, The Maven is a fantastically popular gal. However, I need to state a few things about life today that are markedly different than what I thought they'd be:

For one, life is not perfect. Apparently, popularity does not stop your children from getting very sick, or prevent unexpected car repairs. It doesn't lower the cost of your satellite package either, which is a real bitch. Oh, and another thing? It doesn't do your laundry. That's probably the worst part. It's hard to be the glamorous woman people expect when I'm all sweaty from hanging out the clothes on the line. Popularity should totally come with a housekeeper.

Another thing: popularity doesn't end insecurity. What on earth is that all about? It was supposed to make me more sure of myself. Isn't that how the in-crowd works? Everyone relies on everyone else to give them that air of superiority, and then we collectively look down on the peons from our high horses, right? Apparently, that's a big, fat lie. I don't even have a high horse on which to look down at people from. It hasn't made me feel grandiose or special. I still get my feelings hurt, I still cry, I still wonder what's wrong with me - especially during PMS week. I find fault with myself regularly, and I have not become a natural blond with a small waistline and great teeth. Someone didn't get the memo.

Also, I haven't let go of the past, and use that annoying empathy thing frequently. My inner Zenji often runs around and checks to make sure that people feel happy and included. Inside this cold, Maven exterior, loyal Zenji has a big heart. Figures, her being an acne-riddled dog and all.

Finally, I've learned that, while knowing a lot of people is not a bad thing, my tried and true method of having a few close friends is by far the most important aspect of my social circle. I love my girls; the ones I can truly be myself with, call when I'm having a really bad day, rant to, cry to, laugh with and relax with. The ones that read my crazy blog posts and yet still respect me in the morning. The ones that have been there through the though times - and there have been a lot of those lately - and celebrate the good times. The ones who know how jam-packed full of mayhem my life is and wait patiently until the dust clears, or show up with coffee in hand during the eye of the storm.

The funniest thing about popularity? When I stopped looking for it - stopped feeling sorry for myself because I was lonely; stopped wondering what was wrong with me; stopped picking at my flaws and instead embraced who I was and showed it boldly to the world like I had nothing to lose - love and acceptance inundated my life. And it only gets better every year.

My authentic self, the one I display regularly on this silly little blog for the world to laugh at with, is the one people like. And to think I spent years trying to be someone else. Someone "better".

I guess Zenji wasn't so bad after all. She just needed a little Maven to spice her up and help her grow a backbone, that's all.