Rainbow of Rejection

    The little bottles stared back at me, a pyramid of mockery; I’d never felt cruelty from a rainbow before. I didn’t know a rainbow could have that effect. I walked through the door with such optimism, such hope, a preconceived notion of how this was going to unfold. There had to be a misunderstanding; incredulousness washed over me as the recognition of what was happening dawned on me. Disappointment and rejection followed, each in their own separate uncomfortable wave. A trifecta of feelings that mismatched my expectations to the nth degree. I hoped with all my might I was wrong. I hoped I was being cynical and I would feel like a jerk to make such a lame assumption on the seven-minute drive home to my house. 

    I don’t think anyone would ever accuse me of being an optimist. In fact, more likely the opposite. I know I’m not a ray of sunshine, but I’ve also heard that I’m easy to be around so it can’t all be bad. I’d been living in a new city with my new husband and my new stepson for several months and I was lonely. My husband worked and had friends at work. I had my coaching business, but that meant all human contact was remote. The only human interaction I had in those days was with the barista at whatever coffee shop I went to write at and whatever cashier I encountered as I did my rounds of grocery shopping, always on the hunt for the best deals. 

    I was so excited to be on the verge of making a new friend; not only a new friend, but she had a sister my age, they both had kids my step son’s age and they lived so close, only 7 minutes! Plus, her husband and my husband shared common interests, denim, and music. When you’ve been isolated for months on end with almost no contact with a human that resembles a friend the prospect of connection and inclusion is alluring, even to an introvert. I was definitely nervous, I think I even put on real pants for the occasion. Jeans replaced the leggings that were on rotation; I recall feeling how awful it was to wear “real” clothes and at the same time felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude for the socially acceptable form of athleisure that had crept its way into becoming a social norm. Comfort had become the gold standard for getting dressed in the morning at that point in my life, perhaps to the chagrin of my new husband. I would never know if he cared though; he never said one way or another. 

    Jeans, a cute button down plaid shirt, light makeup, and a pair of boots. I was the picture of Pacific Northwest casual cute. I could have been going to brunch or on a hike. If I was a proper Nothwestener, I would have been going on said hike after the brunch I’d been invited to by this woman and her sister. Instead, I squirreled away the feeling of freedom that would inevitably ensue the moment I walked through my door; took my shoes off and dropped trou. That freedom would have to wait though, at least for an hour, more likely two. I was offered a glass of champagne upon arrival. Only what can be described as a feeling of being a huge bummer magically appeared, as it always does, when I replied, “no, but thank you”. Meanwhile, my addict self screamed in the background, “dear God, yes. The whole bottle, please.” 

    The sisters were lovely, about my age, both blonde, and of course, with two kids each, undertow. I was beyond excited to have kids for my stepson to play with and for moms to learn from. The signs of good parenting were everywhere; age-appropriate toys, some put away, but more importantly, exactly the right amount cluttered about the room indicating good times had already that morning. There were some religious quotes on the walls, but more to do with love than God, so I could get down with that. My husband and I were not raised religious and were not interested in teaching his son any strict beliefs about one thing or another in that context. I could feel the tentative hope give way to vulnerability. I wanted to be friends with these sisters. I started to hope they felt the same way. 

    Making friends in your thirties as an introvert is not easy. Especially in a new city where you know no one and your partner is less interested in social connections than you are. At one point in those days, I even left a note on someone’s car who had bumper stickers of interests I shared. The note was a very short bio that included a comforting line (I’m sure) about how I wasn’t weird, “I promise.” 

    People have their friend groups intact and usually (in my experience) are not overly interested in including the new kid and her family (though this may also be another social charm of the Northwest, that is - saying something different than what you actually mean). This can be distilled into what communication theorists might label as passive communication - one of the least confrontational communication styles and as such also one of the least effective ways to get your needs met. There is a lovely nuanced version of passive communication we Seattleites inadvertently pioneered called “the Seattle freeze.” 

As one "Redit"er put it:

“I grew up in Seattle, and never noticed [the Seattle Freeze]. 10 years ago I moved out of state. I was shocked when, while shopping in a grocery store, a stranger smiled and just started talking with me. WTF did this freak pervert want, anyway? But no, it was just someone having a nice day. That same sort of shit kept happening, too. People would just introduce themselves for no reason.

After a while, I started to get used to it, and I'll admit I started to even enjoy it a bit. I made like, what do you call those things? They are like acquaintances that you enjoy spending time with and do things with; I forget the word.

Then I moved back to Seattle, and it all went away again.”

    So, yes, I may also have been up against a culture that is not conducive to making new besties while walking down the street. All of that was about to change though, this new connection, with her connections, with kids the same age and husbands who wouldn’t be awkward. I was psyched. 

    And then I turned the corner. It was there, on the dining room table. The reality of the situation deflated my enormous helium balloon. Little brown bottles lined up perfectly, each one of them in it’s perfect spot. The label pronouncing the contents, all gussied up in a color that suited its contents best. The lemon was adorned with a sunshiny yellow, lavender cloaked in a deep soothing purple, frankincense in a rich gold, the color foreshadowing not only its value but also its price. As the oils peeked at me mockingly, I felt a rush of red to my cheeks, similar to the cinnamon bark’s label, they stung a bit as I imagine the cinnamon bark might sting when applied. 

    The sister started to introduce the products as soon as she had been introduced, herself. This was not about two souls meeting, this was not about connection. I was fodder, I had been hunted and trapped and was now in the process of being exploited. I bought the biggest bottle of Thieves which is intended to be used as a natural cleaner. My heart sank as I gave her my credit card information. I could not express my sadness or disappointment that welled up as a lump in my throat as I walked toward the door. Thieves in hand. I drove the 7 minutes home, took my pants off, and scrubbed the hell out of my home.