It was recently brought to my attention that there might be a bounty hunter out for my life.
Actually, that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but regardless, considering certain circumstances, I’d say it’s a legitimate assumption to make.
This past week, my parents went to the neighborhood grocery store to purchase a rotisserie chicken. Upon paying, they encountered a blonde-haired girl who recognized their last name.
“Are you Emily Hemson’s mother?” she said while handing my mom back her debit card.
Thinking that this girl had gone to school with me and was wondering what I was up to in my life, my mom replied with a sarcastic, “Yes, unfortunately.”
“Yeah, unfortunately,” the girl responded. “I hate your daughter.”
Awestruck, my parents stood there, as this girl went off on a giant tirade about how the two of us had gotten into a huge fight in the sixth grade. She told my parents what a terrible human being I was and seemed both genuinely angry and distraught about this situation.
Eventually, she stopped her ranting; they finished paying for their chicken, left and gave me a phone call.
“Do you know someone named Susie?” they said.
Thinking it was a random comment to make, I told them I had known someone by this name; they then explained the details of their encounter moments before.
While amused by the incident, I couldn’t help but be confused by Susie’s claims about this apparently scarring event in sixth grade.
Personally, I’m not even sure it happened, as I have absolutely no recollection of such an incident. In sixth grade, I was far too concerned with slicking back my hair, controlling my body’s sweat glands and being far too insecure to start an argument with anyone. But, in this girl’s head, I am the evil villain, which makes you wonder: Who out there could have you as her perceived antagonist in some sort of grudge-inducing incident? Do we hold onto things, which have little importance so long that they gain importance? Or, is Susie merely a girl who likes a good argument?
I decided to do a bit of detective work. So, on a recent trip home, I went to that neighborhood grocery store and paced around the chicken department in hopes of encountering my arch nemesis. And I paced, and paced, and nothing. I looked around, and saw no familiar face, until suddenly, there she was, peeking out behind the deli section. I saw her face. And, while she had aged quite considerably since those sixth-grade days, I could, if I squinted a bit, see the face of the Susie I vaguely remembered. At this point, I got mildly nervous. I thought maybe she would come over, berate my character, and make me feel like the absolutely worthless individual she believed I was. But she didn’t. She looked at me and didn’t even stop what she was doing.
I walked closer, thinking that perhaps she had bad vision and couldn’t make out my face. Still nothing happened. It was then that I realized that Susie actually had no idea what I looked like anymore. To her I was just a creepy girl who liked to stand far too close to the rotisserie chickens. I was no longer, “Emily-the-girl-who-ruined-her-life-in- middle-school.” I was just a plain and simple plebe.
And yet, it was my name that made her angry.
It just seems like such a waste of time, dwelling on things that no longer mean anything at all. It’s senseless, and useless and yet we do it all the time – holding grudges that could easily be deemed unimportant, or over-analyzing encounters until they don’t actually hold any validity.
Either way, at least I don’t have to worry about that bounty hunter; he’s going to be too busy searching for a slick-haired sixth-grader to find me.
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