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In addition to my grey hair, another thing I’ve learned to make peace with is the fact that not everyone who meets me will like me.

That may sound a little weird or not that big of a deal to you. Maybe one day the fact hit you and you just went back to whatever you were doing, shrugging your shoulders. Or mabe you didn’t even have a realization, maybe you knew this from a young age. For me, it was huge. I wasn’t very popular growing up and was picked on quite frequently, so making other people happy- either through jokes or my personality- was my way feeling accepted and keeping the bullies off my back. I wanted everyone to like me, and making people laugh was the quickest way to feel like everyone did. Silence still kills me to this day.

I also think being a girl who comes from a long line of people-pleasers definitely has something do with it. When you see those around you trying to make everyone else happy, you tend to follow suit as a way to universal appeal. It only makes sense. Sure, I’ll give you my favorite pen. What, you want a dollar to buy a pop? Okay, fine, here’s my notes from science class. Low self-esteem is more dangerous than any secret chemicals in Tupperwear and lingers longer than the damage from car exhaust fumes. That’s what we should really be worrying about when it comes to kids- they things they will do in the name of cool.

Anyways, I remember the first time I was aware that someone actually didn’t like me and not in that vague, I-think-they-hate-me-but-I’m-not-sure-way. I knew about this one.

There was a freshman in marching band my sophomore year of high school who was an incredibly sweet kid, but really shy. So of course, the boundless, camp counselor side of me tried to include him as much as possible. To get to know him better and get him to open up, I asked a lot of questions- about life, his family, and all that jazz. He wasn’t the first or last person to get interrogated by me. My sister calls me “Nosy Rosie”, which in some instances may be true, but most of the time I’m genuinely curious. I like to learn about different lives than mine- why do you think I read blogs? People who know me are used to it, but this kid was probably overwhelmed by me.

My high school football team was legendary for its losing streak (40 games at one point), and finally won its first game in over four years that year at an away game. It was the peak of my school spirit and there was much celebration and happiness. Later, getting on the bus, I saw this freshman in the seat, looking bummed. “Why aren’t you happy?” I blurted, “WE JUST WON.” He mumbled something about not being into the game and I left him alone. I eventually fell asleep, but woke up in time to hear him say to someone that he wasn’t happy because that day was the anniversary of his grandmother’s death and that I had bugged him about not being into the game. Then the kicker: “Andrea. I really, really hate her, and I always will. I never want to talk to her again.”

I. Was. So. Crushed. I know you shouldn’t take what a stupid 14-year-old boy says seriously, but I was a stupid 15-year-old girl, so of course I did. Not only was band awkward after that, but he really would not talk to me. I tried to talk to him many times, and he always ignored me (And I told you, silence kills me). In the rare times he’d answer me, he would say it through an intermediary. He wouldn’t even look me in the eye. I know, how lame.

Of course, this fucking killed me. I fretted about it off and on for the rest of the school year. There was this ONE person and he did not like me and I needed to change this! Word could spread and the rioting and pitchforks would start and that’s just a loud mess (So it felt, to a slight exaggeration). But nothing I said or did could change it. He refused to speak to me. Then the next school year came around, I worried about it less. I rarely saw this kid and I had much more pressing problems, like repeatedly failing my driver’s test. The year after that, my senior year, I didn’t even care at all. Who was this kid again? It was weird to me at the time how much less I cared as time went by, especially since it bothered me so badly at first, but I had accepted it, as I have with every other ill feeling that has come my way.

Pete says it best in the Muppets Take Manhattan: Peoples is peoples. Can’t change them or their minds. The best thing to do is just keep going. And sing and dance with a frog if you get the chance.