Fitting Out

Much of my life, I've struggled with fitting in. At school as a child and then later as an adult. At work and in every social setting I have ever set foot.
I've never been a 'joiner.' But deep down, I wanted to be.
I've always fit in more with the outsiders. Typically a group of slightly cynical guys who didn't care about grades or work or what the popular kids where doing. They were oblivious to the cliques and didn't care that they were outside the norm. They didn't care that I was either.
This 'group' has kept me warm throughout my life. They sheltered me when the popular kids found me fit to pick on. And yet, I've always had one foot in the group, one foot pointed toward something more.
I want to be involved.
At work, there is a spirit squad. And more than half of me considers it to be 'so lame,' while the other half of me wonders if the 'lameness' is derived from the fact that I wasn't invited to play.
Even on Twitter, a social media platform that stretches the globe, I find cliques. Locally, there are those who attend tweetups and those who are 'above it.' It becomes even more fractioned when you consider those who go to the tweetup and those who run them.
Could I fit into this upper echelon of twitter society?
Maybe.
Except sometimes I find myself still sitting at the 'not so cool table.' The table where half of us desperately want to be at the cool table but don't say so for fear of rocking the boat where the other half are content to be loners.
I've floated successfully throughout my life, pretending not to care. And sometimes, I don't. I'm fine in my house with my husband and our dogs.
But other times, I yearn to be at some silly girly group, included and wanted.
And the saddest, scariest part of all of this is that I know the biggest hold up is me.
This morning, I read an interesting post by Kerri about a house she grew up in. And it made me think.
Think about life. About growing up. And how the tiniest things from our past shape us to become the people we are today. And how the silliest of actions when we were 7 can still be scars we wear on our faces that only we can see.
How the house I grew up in and the actions of my mother are things I will never be able to get past. That despite my complete detachment of my maiden name, I'm still that little girl from Sheridan who was picked last because she was gawky and awkward and trying her damnedest to fit in, only to find out that the only person around who doesn't believe in her is herself.