Sunday Scribblings: Two Peas In A Pod

"You should be friends," an older woman I know confides in me as we sit on my patio, "You have so much in common--you're the same age, and you're both mothers, writers . . . you're practically two peas in a pod."

I gulp my beer, then offer a wry smile, the only way I know to announce my irritation. She has said this many times before, and each time, my reaction grows darker and deeper, like a pile of potato peels with only green potatoes to show for the effort.

I have tried to be friends with the person of whom the older woman speaks. I have dialed the telephone, shot off emails, suggested lunches, sat alongside this girl on a couch at a party and giggled over glasses of wine. The younger woman played her role of a pea well--when pressed, she nestled and rolled with circumstance. She was the appropriate hue, and also fresh and crisp. But that younger woman, a girlfriend-y soul mate in the wrapper of a pod, shrugged off effort when she was not a key part of the meal. Reciprocal invitations were never offered, and ideas were borrowed without credit.

Rejection hurts, at first, but then, it becomes an ingredient for a word salad. Sliced embarrassment, crunchy croutons of insecurity that scrape the roof of my mouth, and finally a bitter vinegar dressing.

All together, the words become worth the pain, and the taste of hurt becomes subtle, lost among the other flavors.

So, I tell this older woman the next time she encourages a friendship between me and my fellow pea, that I have tried and am frankly not interested. Two peas in pod, I think not. I don't like her, I say, and the older woman blanches. She's a cold fish, I say, and I finally laugh.

One pea and one cold fish. A raw pea that would prefer to reside in a roomy pod.
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