Spite Incarnate

Do you ever think things about people that you know are mean, but that make you feel a little bit good anyway, underneath the sniggering and the guilt?

I attended an unofficial high school reunion last night -- the drama geek crowd, now old enough to drink, which was a helpful thing under the circumstances. The majority of us are still somewhat socially inept. In fact, the majority of us had not changed one bit, apart from new haircuts, a little more worldliness, several weddings.

But one person had changed. A large (cough) change.

In high school, she and I were on opposite fringes of the same circle of friends. She was very pretty, and extremely vain. She was fairly bright, but thought herself untouchably brilliant. She dated older men who used her and paraded around like it was a prize. She was sugary syrupy sweet to you in person, but openly -- or worse, covertly -- cruel, petty, and self-serving when niceness did not suit her needs.

She was the one who, in junior high, decided several of us girls should take our measurements: bust, waist, hips, but also biceps, thighs... She and I had exactly the same measurements, but her thighs were two inches smaller. The next day, thanks to her, it was the talk of the 8th grade. (And 10 years later, I am the only person on the face of the earth who remembers it.)

You know the girl.

Well, she was there last night. And I think it's safe to say I would win any measurement contest these days, hands down. She has gone way past chubby and landed squarely in obese.

And while everyone hugged and laughed and "Wow, you look great!"-ed each other, they nervously avoided her eyes. They couldn't help giggling in disbelief in the corners: "Is that her? What happened?" And I and all my friends, because we are at heart evil people, felt vindicated. It's her comeuppance, right? It's okay because she was mean to us, right?

Ah, but forgiveness is tricky. I felt like I should talk to her, but I didn't want her to think it was out of pity. And, frankly, I couldn't bring myself to talk to her. Couldn't couldn't couldn't. The facts remain that I don't (didn't) like her, I find (found) her conversation inane, and she treats (treated) people badly with no hint of remorse. On one hand, why not make amends when she's no longer so imperious? On the other, why bother?

Maybe the sad truth is that I'm as cruel now as she was then -- and worse, because I am not 14 and I should know better. One day soon I am going to wake up with painful boils all over my body for feeling even a little bit good about her misfortune. Sympathy. Snicker. Sympathy. Snicker. Wrath of God.