Better than cheerleaders

 Among those of us living here in the retirement community, the emotions of the young are alive and well. People actually fall in love around here. Imagine. And they feel envy, sometimes anger, and even silly spontaneous joy. People around here are like that.

People around here. Actually, I’m talking about me. No, I’ve not fallen in love; I’m still pleasantly and lovingly well connected to my husband of long-standing. But once or twice I’ve felt a two-year-old temper tantrum coming on. No, I didn’t throw myself on the floor, screaming and kicking my legs. (That would have been a spectacle.) I managed to squelch it before that point. I am at least that mature.

But just last evening I stood back and watched myself wallowing in those adolescent feelings of being left out, on the outside of the in-group, looking in with longing. Excluded.

There’s a group of people here that often eat together. They sit at a big round table and I watch them laughing and having what I suppose to be scintillating conversation. They’re all so well-groomed, while I am feeling rather sloppily put together this evening. I’m again on the outside wishing I were one of them. Cheerleaders all of them.

When I was a teenager, I longed to be a cheerleader. They were the pinnacle, the top of the heap. They were all beautiful and had cute names liked Tammy or Debbie or Christy or Misty or Frosty. They jumped and danced and leaped, making the crowds yell in enthusiasm. They were at the center.

The cheerleaders. Not the actual football players. (I never wanted to be football player. I don’t even like the sport—a bunch of big bullies bumping each other and causing brain injuries. Not for me.) It was all about being a cheerleader.

I wasn’t anywhere close to Them. Well, actually, I did get sort of close when I was in the eighth grade. I joined the flag twirling squad. We practiced in the football field during PE class and after school—marching and learning how to manipulate the blue and white (school colors) flags. Several time we even preformed during the junior varsity half-times.

I can prove I was a flag twirler. I have a black-and-white photo of me in profile with my pony tail, my short skirt, and my broom-stick legs. Standing at attention, holding my flags. Ready for action.

So, I did my part to encourage Team Spirit, although we all knew there were levels. The flag-twirlers were at the bottom, followed by the pom pom girls, and at the top, of course, the actual cheerleaders.

I thought those days of cheerleader-envy were long gone. That I no longer had to bother with feeling left out. I guess not.

Stop it! I tell myself. I’m not an adolescent, no matter these occasional emotions. All those people eating together are not cheerleaders. Actually, all of them are my friends. Probably they’d welcome me at their table (especially if they knew what they were missing :).

I know what to do when I catch myself drudging up old emotions. I write about them. Writing is one of my ways of coping with life. Often I can write my way out of a problem to a solution. Insight comes through the process, not before I start. It’s the Spirit’s way of taking my hand and helping me find my way out of the dark part of the forest. There’s light at the end of the page.

So, I write in my journal and when I read it back to myself, I often start laughing. Now that’s healthy. I need to laugh at myself on a regular basis. It’s the path to sanity. Maybe even to maturity.

Yes, I am all those ages from two-years-old, through adolescence, and on up to now. But I’m more than the sum of rehashed emotions. I’m a beloved child of God. I belong to him. I’m included in the deepest sense possible, a part of the people of God.

In fact, I think I’ll invite some of those friends to eat at my table. Maybe we can laugh together. Old/young/ageless, all of us—better than cheerleaders!