So I wanted to be a Bad Girl

For the vast majority of my life, I’ve been a Good Girl. What’s a Good Girl, you ask? A Good Girl always does her homework, always has a contingency plan, gets good grades, completes her “to do” list, has a great work ethic, etc. She’s the one you call when you get into a jam. She’s the one you never worry about because she never seems to need or want help.

I was always self-reliant. I learned way early on that I could never, ever rely on my father. After all, he was the kind of guy that would drop me off at the library, go to the bar, and then get so drunk that he would forget that I was waiting in front of the library for him to pick me up three hours later. My mom was more physically present but often so detached in her own world that at a young age I learned to make my own food, wash my own clothes, remind myself to do my homework, and all that other stuff that parents usually have to nag their kids about.

One of the examples is that when I was 8 years old, my mom sent me to visit my dad & grandparents for a few weeks during the summer. This was the mid-80’s when airports and airlines functioned very differently than they do now. The airlines were supposed to keep track of me since I was 8 years old and flying without an adult, but they didn’t seem to notice my whereabouts. After all, I was probably seated next to some random adult, I didn’t make any noise, and I seemed to know all of the procedures, so I stayed under the radar. The part of the trip that made me nervous was that I had to change planes in Chicago O’Hare. I had only 40-ish minutes for my layover. When I was flipping through the airplane magazine, I saw that all of the major airports were featured with their terminal layouts. So I looked at my ticket to see what gate we were leaving from in O’Hare, and then I looked at the O’Hare map, and I figured out the route I had to take once they told us the gate we were arriving at over the loudspeaker. When we landed, I just kept repeating the route I had to take to myself and of course found the gate in time. Even that young, I realized that it’s easier to figure out this type of stuff by myself rather than cry to some ticket agent about not knowing where I needed to go. In subsequent trips to see my father unattended in later years, the flight attendants never forgot my flying alone status. They watched me like hawks and wouldn’t leave me unattended at all, and they made me ride those embarrassing cars (the ones that honk and usually carry handicapped people) through the airport. I missed my freedom of my first trip flying unattended when I got forgotten by the flight attendants.

Growing up I was very self-reliant and capable. I liked school and was good at it (except for PE, oh how I hated PE). My first job was at Merrill Lynch. I started college early. I was picked to be on a city commission and became the chairperson. While insecure in social situations, I had a quiet confidence that came from setting my mind on something, working for it, and achieving it.

A good friend in college told me (during a fight) that everything came easy to me, and I didn’t have to work for anything. I suppose it’s basically akin to being told that you’re a complete spoiled brat. I don’t think I am, but I can see the point that if school comes easy to someone, then it’s easy to use that to get ahead in other ways. For example, taking a transcript of all A’s when you apply for a job makes it easier to get a job.

Around the age of 15, I was tired of being a Good Girl. Good Girls aren’t exciting or fun. Good Girls don’t get asked out for their academic prowess. Good Girls simply fade into the walls and are put into reserve and only used when they’re needed, i.e., as study buddies before big tests or listening to your problems at 1am when your other friends are asleep or too busy with their own problems. I was tired of being the perennial Good Girl. I wanted to be a Bad Girl. I wanted to be the type of girl who would hang out with unsavory people, sneak out late at night, do stupid things (i.e., “live a little”), and I wanted to try to shed at least some of the adjectives that you would use to describe a Honda (reliable, always working at 100%, etc.).

Of course, I couldn’t become a Bad Girl all at once. I had my Good Girl commitments that I couldn’t shed in pursuit of being a Bad Girl. Am I supposed to get a D average just to prove that I’m a Bad Girl? Nah, I couldn’t do that. That would ruin my chances of graduating magna cum laude. So I became a part-time Bad Girl. Like a Bad Girl on call from the hours of 4pm – 5pm on Tuesdays and Thursdays, 9pm – 12am on Wednesdays, and 8pm – 1am on Saturdays, or something like that.

As for unsavory people, I quickly learned that those who had D averages were smart – smart in a different, completely interesting sort of way. They taught me so much. I learned that their circumstances and lives were very different from mine but at the same time very similar. Some of them had very unreliable and detached parents too, and I wondered why I was on the 85% Good Girl/15% Bad Girl path while they were on the 15% Good Girl/85% Bad Girl path with similar sets of circumstances. I realized that when I went into situations knowing that I would end up likely doing stupid things, I set up parameters with myself about how “stupid” I could be. My feet were always firmly in Good Girl territory although at the time I thought I was quite the Bad Girl.

As an adult, I’m back to almost entirely Good Girl. I look fondly back at my Bad Girl moments all the time. I was asserting my independence back then in such a small but almost necessary way. Had I not (unsuccessfully) tried to become a Bad Girl, then I wouldn’t be who I am today. It’s amazing how much you can learn from being a Bad Girl for 15% of the time for 2 years versus being a Good Girl almost entirely for 30ish years. The summation of the Good Girl lesson isn’t very radical. It’s basically the Protestant work ethic: work hard and you will reap the rewards. The Bad Girl lessons, on the other hand, are quite varied and not as socially acceptable to cross stitch on a couch pillow. They are lessons such as:

“Date a bad boy, but never marry one.”
OR
“Never wear white shoes while being chased by the police.”
OR
“Certain herbs that you’re holding for someone else + leather purse + hot day = a stench you can never get rid of.”
OR
“The best hiding spot when you live with your single mother is the attic.”

Some days I am so ready to cross stitch one of those witticisms on a couch pillow.