“You’d be surprised how many people violate this simple principle every day of their lives and try to fit square pegs into round holes, ignoring the clear reality that things are as they are.” (Benjamin Hoff)

Every high school in the 70’s had one; that corner nestled in the brick facade where the cool kids hung out between classes, smoking cigarettes and flipping hair out of their eyes, while mumbling if anyone was up for cutting next period.  I was always hovering somewhere in space; I didn’t fit in with the brainiacs who dominated band practice, or the jocks and jockettes who lived for the thrill of competition, and I wasn’t as misdirected as to be in search of that next hazy moment.  I was with the ‘square peg, round hole crowd;’ those who never quite fit with any group but could chameleonize if need be.

As I entered adulthood, my ill-fitting peg became more prominent and self-imposed.  I look back in retrospect and question how I endured circumstances that were never compatible with my psyche, yet I kept pushing through.  One instance that brings with it the most grief is my now organic understanding that I was meant to work independently, yet the calling to conform had me working in corporate America for too many years, with a mounting frustration that held more influence than an unknown risk.  It’s a culture I grew to loathe, from its grade-school politics to the sadistic game of musical chairs that puts any paycheck at the mercy of the hierarchy powers-that-be, decisions that could blow in any direction thanks to at-will statutes.  Here today, gone tomorrow with two weeks’ severance if you’re lucky.

An unconventional group think experience I had happened years ago and didn’t involve an employment mindset.  It was theatrical.  An aging actor, known for his good looks, made a comeback on the small screen with a new popular series.  The years had melded his handsomeness into the perfect blend of cragged sexiness with a charming gleam, which made him catnip to his admirers, a clique comprised primarily of perimenopausal women who still had swoon left in their groove. 

I engaged with the series and appreciated the eye candy.  One evening, I decided to join the network’s message board to share my opinion on the latest episode and chat with others. What I didn’t know at the time was an entire underground of devotees existed, who shared their thoughts in a member-only, password protected group chat, which was a clever portmanteau of his name and the feeling of passion he inspired.  It’s where pith held court.  Armed with a benign screen name and a sense of fun, I dove in.  The steps into the cave had an Alice in Wonderland feel and what made it more dizzying was that this group of women were an educated and professional bunch, and their ability to wax rhapsodic about the color of his eyes and the shape of his lips was impressive, if not unrivaled. 

As the group think became more intense, a sense of camaraderie developed among many of the members who decided to hold an informal retreat at a chosen location.  Members congregated from different areas of the country to engage in a weekend of getting to know one another.  I couldn’t make that gathering, but I did meet up with a few in NYC for dinner at a future date.

We chose to meet downtown on a warm spring evening.  As the serendipitous, Prankster Nymphs of the Universe would have it, about an hour or so into dining al fresco on cocktails and hors devours, the object of our affection, our very own Mad Hatter with his angular handsomeness, perfectly bowed lips and gorgeous eyes came from around a corner and in front of our path.  What happened from there, I can’t recall.  I remember squeals of delight, fluttering eyelashes and maybe a cartwheel or two, the moment seemed to blend into time and space.  What I do remember is the evening coming to its end, and my square-pegged derriere longing for my round-holed apartment. 

We all have a natural desire to fit in and that can be positive.  A feeling of belonging to something greater than ourselves satiates our primal need to bond. But it should never be forced.  If it’s not meant for you, it will never quite fit.  And if you’re in your golden years as I am, bask in the wonderfulness of no longer caring to try.