Do They Make Mental OxiClean?

Out with friends.

"Erin, I did a bad thing."

"Oh?"

"But I can't tell you."

"...Okay."

"Well, I just went along with it. It was really [friend who sort of looks like a young, and more Armenian, Billy Mays]."

Liberal application of gentle hectoring and less-gentle alcohol reveals:

"We started a book club and specifically didn't invite you."

Oh.


Let's back this up a bit.


One of my favorite compliments I've ever received--and I secretly loathe myself for it--was when a guy I loved-to-hate said I was the smartest person he knew.

This was patently false, but just the fact that he could say it tickled my deep wells of inferiority complex.

So when Armenian Billy Mays told me I couldn't join their book club "because you're too smart. You'll judge us. You probably have a secret blog at The New Yorker or The Atlantic," it was easy to laugh. But it also resonated with the unpleasant part of me that relishes the perception of my intelligence, but also fears that I come off as an unlikeable knowitall. A fear which, in itself, sounds hopelessly self-aggrandizing.

No one wants to be that guy. There was a kid who lived in my freshman dorm who was so unbearably full of himself that my future roommate, a dramatic writing major, seriously considered submitting a play entitled "Shut the Fuck Up, [Name of Insufferable Dude]." We still quote it from time to time.

I constantly corrected people, growing up. My older sister on her spelling and pronunciation--made doubly cruel after her dyslexia diagnosis, which I used as an excuse to compound my efforts with extra condescension. The parents of a childhood friend are still aloof, ever since I shared my eighth grade standardized test scores. (And their daughter is no dummy: she just finished her MBA.) To this day, I catch myself volunteering needlessly obscure factoids about, well, whatever topics come up. This has made a favorite on pub trivia teams, but I definitely worry that it affects my reputation negatively in other areas.

"Did you know that Heinz's first product wasn't ketchup, but horseradish sauce?" "Lewis Carroll's real name was Charles Dodgson." "Actually, in women, it's called the 'Electra complex.'"

So I try to stop. And I'm enthusiastic about other people's accomplishments, and opinions, and stuff going on in their lives. I'm pretty sure I'm very nice. At least most of the time.

So thank you, Armenian Billy Mays, for your compliment. We were having fun, and I genuinely laughed. But excluding me still played into a profound insecurity, and forced me to revisit a part of my personality that makes me cringe--especially when other people notice it.

PS: I don't have a secret New Yorker blog. This is my secret blog.