In second grade, I wasn’t invited to classmate Gavin Brown’s birthday party.
That really hurt. I understand why I wasn’t invited — because I’m a creep. But I didn’t like it.
Thirty three years later, my social status has not changed and the pain that goes with that ostracism has not diminished. Not even a little bit.
Tonight I stepped into a party and was promptly kicked out.
That made me mad and I want to lash out at the people who hurt me. In fact, I have.
Once a week, I engage in a communal meal. I sit in the same seat every week. Normally, I have a friend or two who sit with me. Sometimes a group of people choose to sit with me. Sometimes girls, cute girls, sit near me.
But the past few weeks, I’ve eaten alone.
I’ve been out on the wing, alone, and felt like a complete loser.
That’s why I always carry a book around with me. I never know when I’ll be in a room where nobody will want to talk to me.
I respect the reasons why people don’t talk to me. I just don’t like it.
I remember a temple (Ohr Ha Torah) I attended nine years ago. A girl I was with on and off came one Sabbath.
"Nobody wants to sit with you," she noted.
After lunch, I got up to walk her out.
"Don’t bother," she said.
She didn’t want to be contaminated.
My therapist suggested I call my memoir, "The Uninvited."
I’m really lost without Cathy Seipp to mother me.
