Reflections of an erstwhile (?) wallflower

(Dan went to bed early tonight and while I know I should do the same thing, I'm going to postpone that for a minute to blog. I should also note that this post should probably go on the blog that I have so far created only in theory--still working on a title--so if you're looking for a post about the kids, you may want to wait and come back tomorrow).

Confession: I was a wallflower in high school. Er, maybe that's not much of a confession. It won't surprise anyone who knew me back then, and will probably surprise few of you who know me now. Dances alternately fascinated and repulsed me. I went--all my friends went--but I hated passionately those awkward moments when a slow song came on over the speakers, and so I would make an excuse to go get a drink, use the restroom, anything but stand around, waiting with my heart pounding, for no one to ask me to dance. Things did get better as I got older: in college I stopped caring quite so much about getting asked to dance and concentrated more on just enjoying the music and being with friends. (Surprisingly enough, I also got asked to dance a little more often in college. That probably helped).

But feeling out of place, unwanted, wasn't always just limited to the dance floor. In retrospect, I suppose this is a common feeling in adolescence (how can anyone really feel like they fit in when they don't know yet who they are, much less who they are supposed to fit with?). At the time, however, feeling out of place was extremely painful. I remember one occasion, early in high school, when some friends of mine had been invited to a party and I hadn't. They tried to persuade me to come with them, explaining that they thought the party was pretty much an open invite to anyone who wanted to come. But, being the oldest child (and therefore having had no exposure to that kind of party), I refused to go with them. I still remember the strangely intense revulsion I had toward the idea of going somewhere where I was not wanted. (Instead, I stayed home and cried. Now, what seems saddest to me is not how sad I felt, but how pointless my reaction was. I could have gone, and no one would have cared.)

Another confession: I still feel like a wallflower sometimes, not sure where I fit in. I always thought that by my thirties, I would get over that kind of self-consciousness. Now I'm starting to wonder how old you have to be to be fully comfortable in your own skin. I've gotten good at finding something to do at ward activities to cover the fact that I still don't know everyone. And I am getting better at not caring what other people think. But not always. Sometimes I still find myself longing to get invited to that select book club, to this particular play group. Even now, I still want to be liked.

But I'm also (re)discovering something that you'd think I would have learned long ago. (Sometimes I can be a slow learner). Being a wallflower is at least partly a choice. I may not get asked to dance (or invited to that book club), but I can find someone else who isn't dancing and strike up a conversation. In other words, if I feel out of place in a community, I can start by crafting my own community in its place. If I feel lonely, it's up to me to reach out. And I have to confess, I've made some real strides toward that recently.

I've been a little envious of a friend's easy participation in an online community of smart, literate LDS women (Segullah, among others); and I've been intimidated by some of the amazing women profiled at the new Mormon Women Project (including the editor, who was a candidate for the presidential scholarship at BYU the same year as I was). In other words, I found myself reenacting the wallflower role, passively wanting to be part of something.

This week, I decided to do something about it. I contacted the editor at the MWP and told her I wanted to help--we're supposed to talk on Monday about what I can do. And I submitted a guest blog post to Segullah that they accepted (!). I'll let you know when it comes out.