The Great White Whale

I have acquaintances and friends enough. There are plenty of people who like me, who think I am interesting, worth knowing. Why is it, then, that I am so obsessed with the few who don't?

Consider Lisa (not her real name). I don't know her very well, and I don't like her that much. Some part of me respects her forthrightness, but most of me thinks she is despicable. She dismisses people without even giving them a proper chance—and there are few things I find more reprehensible than that.

Her lifestyle is one I could never maintain. I couldn't live with the demands of being her friend—the excitement, the drama, the parties. I am not a party girl, and I never will be. I don't find that kind of life fun. I prefer a crossword puzzle to a wild party any day.

I have had no evidence that she is anything but trite and self-absorbed. She isn't stupid—she has the audacity not to be stupid!—but she certainly is shallow. I wouldn't want to be her in a million years. I don't consider myself better than she is; I just prefer the life I lead to hers.

But some part of me craves her approval. I would give anything to have her like me—and if she did, I'd convince myself that I'd been wrong about her before. I'd find some reason to like her. I'd rationalize; I'd make excuses. I'd find a redeeming quality somewhere.

Why do I care? Because she looks down on me. Because she considers me weird, beneath notice, pathetic. A loser. Because if I can change her mind about me, maybe I can finally change my own.

I am not thirteen anymore. I've grown up and I know better. So why do I still feel like this? Why do old habits die hard?