“I didn’t think that at all!” Liar. “What kind of . . . group?” I couldn’t bring myself to say the word support; it sounded dirty, like douching or something.
“Just me and a few friends. We want to meet every week and check in with each other about our goals. Career, family, long-term, short-term. Totally informal.”
People? Organized talking? Oh, God. “I don’t think so.”
“Do you have any goals you haven’t reached? Anything you could use a boost about?”
Sure, a million things. Thinking about them, I almost started crying. “I guess I can come once or something. If I don’t fit in, you guys can uninvite me.”
Kim gave me a funny look. “I don’t think anyone will do that.”
The next week I forced myself to wake up at seven thirty for the first time in about five years and drove to a pancake house in Los Angeles to join a “lady support group.” It felt like going to my first day of college. I had a panic attack in the parking lot and almost drove back to bed, but it’s LA, and everyone is forced to valet, so the dude took my car away before I could escape.
There were three other women in attendance besides me and Kim. Jane, who had an oovy groovy air like her chakras were WAY in balance; Trina, who was pretty and pleasant, the kind who screamed “perfect TV wife”; and Susan, who had big hair and laughed like a trucker. They were all in their mid-to late thirties, and I was in my midtwenties, so I was intimidated from the get-go by the mass of womanhood. I was wearing jeans I hadn’t washed in a week. I had a feeling they’d left those times far behind them.
We went around the table sharing our goals. I learned that Jane wanted to be a director, and she was writing screenplays in order to make that happen. Trina and Susan were actors who wanted to work more, but Trina’s bigger goal was to get pregnant. Hearing that immediately made me think, Uterus talk? Get me outta here! but I just nodded quietly, mimicking the others’ supporting-type vibe.
I got tenser and tenser as the conversation circled around to me, because I didn’t know what I was going to say. I’ve always felt like a failure inside if I’m not already a success. If that makes any sense.
Jane was the leader, and she was so generous and open; just being around her was like taking a Xanax. She tossed the conversation to me last. “And Felicia, what goals are you working towards?”
“Uh, acting more. And writing . . . something. A screenplay? Or . . . a pilot? Yeah, a TV pilot.” I grabbed “pilot” out of the air because Jane had already said she was doing a screenplay, and it’s a personal rule of mine never to order the same thing off the menu as someone else. You’re a flawed human being if you think two beet salads at a table is ever acceptable.
“A TV pilot? Neat! Do you have a concept?”
“Uh . . . well . . .” Sweat popped out under my armpits. What did I know about? What did I know about?! THINK! SAY SOMETHING, FELICIA! “Gamers?”
They all jumped in. “That’s great!” “Awesome.” “How unique!” Suddenly I realized, Hey, a gamer TV pilot is a great idea! I put it at the top of my “goals” list. I won’t lie, the sheer act of writing the words “TV pilot” down on the corner of my dirty paper napkin made everything seem possible. This group support thing was gonna work out!
By the end of the breakfast, we’d named the group Chick-In. ’Cause we were all going to “Hatch GREAT THINGS!” No, I just made that up; it wasn’t our tagline, we were not that dorky. Well, kinda.
Over the next six months, the group met once a week, covering pancake houses across Southern California with hope and positive feelings. (I found out later the whole meet-up idea was inspired by the book The Secret, but I decided to gloss over that fact, like you do when eating nonorganic produce. It’s still good fiber!) And over time, the support started to work. Everyone was getting their lives organized. Step by step.
Everyone except me.
The ladies would go around the table sharing “wins” every week.
“I finished the first act of my screenplay . . .”
“I booked a national commercial! That gets me health insurance this year!”
“Met with a new manager, he’s keen to help me get more TV jobs.”
“We’re thinking about doing infertility treatments . . .”
Then it was my turn. “Uh, I created a Word template for our weekly to-do lists.”
They stared. I babbled on. “You know, because it’s nice to get organized. I used a special font and imported pretty graphics.”
“Isn’t that the third to-do template you’ve made for us this month?”
“Yeah . . . but this one perfected the format! I also wrote down some Universe Goals to motivate myself.” I’d thought long and hard about them, for maybe twenty minutes the night before, and was confident about my new “self-statement.”
Realistic goals all around, right? Especially the rain forest part. I was excited to hear the group’s affirmation of my goals.
I got none.