Ring Leader: Wolf in Swan's Clothing

At every opportunity she criticizes, and the others join in:  living proof that Stanley Milgram knew what he was talking about when he discussed group dynamics.  I try to steel myself for the weekly ritual of humiliation.  If it would just stop at the meeting I could handle sixty minutes of snide comments and dirty looks.  It’s the post-gathering self-flagellation that inevitably ensues which does me in. 

The ring leader is a beautiful Italian woman—tall; curvy; thick espresso hair cascading down her back; large, dark, mysterious eyes; flawless olive skin; beautifully manicured fingers—a very desirable creature.  She is hot-blooded and yells—she calls it “loud talking,” but I know yelling when I hear it.  I’ve heard it enough, and yes, I guess you can say I’ve done it enough, too.  She is stunning—and recently divorced.  She lives with her Italian mother who dotes on her.  I like her daughter a lot, as she is a sensitive child clearly traumatized by her parents’ separation.  There’s no shortage of male suitors saving her mother from her recently singled fate.  Never underestimate the healing power of affection and attention to a wounded ego.

At first the criticisms were Scout related.  She didn’t like the way the programs were run or the ones that I chose.  She doesn’t like that I look tired before meetings—she said the girls can sense it.  She doesn’t like my hours for cookie pickup, as they are limited at best.  I begged the parents not to make me serve as leader and cookie mom.  No one volunteered, so now I muddle through as best as I can.

Things have escalated beyond the impersonal—now she launches personal attacks and cruel taunts that slice open already raw nerves like a carbon steel blade cutting through soft butter.  The words are whispered loud enough for me to hear—normally when I’m doing crafts with the girls or sitting quietly while a librarian gives the tour.  “She’s not one of us; she doesn’t even belong here.”

Part of me, OK, make that all of me, wants to say blurt out, “Well, if I look a little haggard it could be because I do everything myself—and I didn’t go home to Mommy.  You’re right—I’m not one of you.”  A few of the other mothers have told her to tone it down, that I do the best that I can, that I give a lot to the girls, that I’m only one person.   Some notice that I tire a bit more easily than usual, and surmise it’s burning the candles at both ends.

Besides filling me with doubt, she represents an interesting statistic in my life--of all my separated/divorced acquaintances there is only one other who is currently not involved.  All were paired immediately.  I thought my being alone initially was a blessing.  I needed to heal because I oozed bitterness.  I thought that once I was healed that I would be considered a woman of substance—that men would be thrilled that someone like me was available.  Silly girl.

Of course my first foray I immediately went to the known, to the one that originally broke my heart.  He was recently divorced too.  I naively thought it was fate.  Hah!  It was always one-sided, but I loved him furiously.  I don’t anymore—the exterior is beautiful, but the interior needs work.  Yes, blame it on the a-hole attraction for which I am infamous.  I was young when I divorced—late twenties and I didn’t meet anyone then.  The other women, a few of whom need saving, were snatched up immediately even though they have kids—some even have multiple kids.  Strong, warm hands cradled them when they fell.  Me, I’ve “mended” on my own, and the only warm hands that have come my way have eventually wrapped around my throat, choking the remainder of self-confidence out of me.

Sometimes all you need is a strong, warm hand to hold yours—physical proof that you’re special.  If I were such a gem someone would have loved me by now.  I just don’t need the Ring Leader to throw a spotlight on what I know intrinsically.