Finding Your Flamboyance
Finding my flock led to getting my pink back. This story has nothing to do with flamingos.
In this world, there are two types of girls. There are the Girl’s Girls, and there are the Pick Me Girls. We don’t fuck with the latter. But we do fuck with ladders, because we are independent women who don’t need no man. Unless you want one, which is fine, that is your choice. A want is very different than a need. Onwards and upwards we go (that was a ladder joke).
So what exactly is a Girl’s Girl you may ask? If you really did ask that: welcome to your first day on Earth! I have terrible news about the sustainability of this planet. A Girl’s Girl is someone who will ride at dawn for other women, no follow up questions required. What are they riding? Depends on the scenario. We’ll figure it out as we go, together. What’s the mission? Doesn’t matter, we will accomplish it. What did he do this time? There’s a lot of factors to sort, but a Girl’s Girl will handle it, full stop. And she’ll bring your favorite drink for you, without even having to ask first.
Pick Me Girls want just that - to be picked. They’re not like other girls (derogatory). They rarely have authentic female friendships, because they’ve prioritized male validation (also derogatory). That is a choice. Pick Me Girls will do whatever they need to do to garner male attention, which is embarrassing, for obvious reasons. This is why we don’t fuck with Pick Me Girls. Watching women fill their banks with a currency that’s no longer accepted here is hard to watch, but even a Pick Me can be gentrified. How do I know this? Because I used to be a Pick Me Girl, and once I got picked, that’s when I knew. I done fucked up. And this was not good.
Being a Pick Me Girl is actually the harder route, but in order to get to the other side, we must go through. I cannot speak for others, and this pubic-lation is not to be used as medical advice, nor is it intended to diagnose or treat anyone or anything. I am not a doctor. I didn’t even graduate from college. Just ask my starter husband, he’ll tell you all about that. Pick Me Girls just want attention, which isn’t inherently bad. It’s valid to want to be seen and heard, and the feeling of being chosen feels really good. I get that feeling every time I get a jury summons in the mail. Imagine my disappointment that I'm never chosen (it has happened thrice since I’ve lived in Colorado, and I’m not exaggerating. Fucking ridiculous but I’m getting distracted.) We were sold a lie (by the government, for tax purposes, probably) that the nuclear family is the ideal end game. What a crock of shit.
Pick Me Girls are like salmon. Just trust me on this, I watch a lot of nature documentaries now. They’re swimming up the river (so much fucking work) battling against all the other lady salmon, literally swimming uphill to find their mate. Feels like a lot of work for little reward, because guess what’s at the top of the hill? Surprise! It’s a bear. And no, I’m not looping this back to which bear we are choosing. This bear is going to fucking kill you. Ope. No mate for you, Pick Me Girl.
After my daughter was born, I found myself in a peculiar situation; I sidelined my career to stay home and focus on my family, but most of the time, I was alone. I went from a vibrant career that was rewarding and never annoying, where I was loved by all and hated by none, to spending most of my days alone. So there I was, at home, with a new baby, and that’s about it. Babies are cool and all, but they don’t talk. Kinda boring, really. Not the best coworker, and also not a very good friend, now that I'm thinking about it. My husband didn’t understand my struggle (spoiler: he understood clearly, he just didn’t care) and I knew I needed human connection with people going through the same day to day struggles as I was. Remember the salmon and the bear? Everything comes full circle, but you have to go through it first. So, I did exactly what our ancestors did when they were in search of mom friends: I posted in a local mom’s group on Facebook.
Teach a man to fish, or whatever the Bible says, but I started making connections with other women, pretty quickly (slay). I was new to online dating, but this was so exciting, because I was dating for women friends, not men to date. My first Facebook > IRL conversion was with my friend Samwich. That’s her actual name, by the way. Not her screen name. She is a real person, and things were getting pretty serious. We met up at a local restaurant, and our connection was immediate. She offered to hold my baby, because I didn’t have enough hands? Say less. We are still friends, eight years later. Why? Because Samwich is a fuckin’ Girl’s Girl. That’s why. And by this point in my life, I was a Girl’s Girl too, because I knew that men weren’t shit, and women were THE shit. There was only one obvious choice. There was no turning back, and this time I actually was going to take prisoners along the way. Figuratively, of course. I had a new baby, another kid, a worthless husband, some dogs, and I didn’t have time to care for anyone else. False imprisonment is also a felony, and at that time, I didn’t think I would make it in jail. How would I have known that I would thrive in the clink? More on that later.
As time went on, I knew I needed to get serious about finding my flamboyance. Have you Googled that yet, or are you just going with it? No wrong answers. Things in my marriage were getting worse, and I needed community; I knew that the marriage was not going to be forever. Nobody believes in divorce, until it’s their time to get divorced. It’s the same with Republican Senators and abortion.
I knew I needed other Girl’s Girls now more than ever. Unsure where to start, I cast a wide net. Digitally. I’m not an angler, surprise! There are plenty of fish in the sea, but I wanted a community, in a landlocked state. The first cast was a group chat was named The Uncles. We would be like the Uncles in Full House, but instead of Uncles, it would be moms, because let’s be so for real. All the children would’ve really died if men were in charge in Full House, because they are men. If that joke offends you, then you have never been married to a mediocre man. Clap, clap.
The Uncles began as 10+ moms in a group chat. Fucking nightmare, if you’re not into group chats. I explained to the chat what the intention was for the group - they tell us it takes a village, so let’s build a fucking village. But we try to avoid appropriating other cultures, so let’s built a club instead (taken from white men who golf, intentionally).
And so it goes, The Supper Club was born. Not just a friend group. Not a party bunch. A collective of women, working together to make each other’s lives a little easier. Because let’s be honest: being a mom is fucking hard. It’s harder when you don’t have adequate support. It’s even harder when your husband hates you.
Every woman needs a Supper Club. Women, committed to showing up when another cannot. Fuck the patriarchy. It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity, and it’s yours to create. We’ve got each other, through everything. Can’t make school pickup? Davena’s got it. Need a ride to a doctor’s appointment? Christina’s there. At home alone with your kids, and you’ve ran out of milk? Not for long, because Dani’s on her way. Scared of your husband? Head over to Kristy’s, and she’ll even let you hide your car in her garage, just in case. First Husband is trying to take your kids? Everyone will take off of work, and sit behind you in court so you aren’t alone. The Supper Club has nothing to do with actual supper, but everything to do with making sure no one’s cup is ever empty. When our souls are nourished, we finally have capacity. And when women support women, the world becomes a better place.
Recently, Emily and I found out that flamingos can fly. Did you know that? She thought zoos put weights on their ankles. I thought zoos clipped their wings. Either way, those flamingos are trapped, but you are not. Who would be in your Supper Club?