There is a small group of women that attend my church who have formed a very strong bond with each other. If we were in high school, I would call them a “clique.” They are all rich and pretty, overly polite and well-poised, and usually extremely gracious women. Their social calendar is jam-packed with engagements that they attend only with each other, including an exclusive “invitation only” book club. They maintain that it’s because they want to keep the numbers in the group small, but the women who have expressed interest in joining (and have been told there’s no room) have repeatedly been stung when a new family starts coming to church, and the beautiful and well-to-do wife is immediately invited to join. If we were in high school, I would call them “snobs.”

On Monday afternoon they held a going away party for one of the members of this tight-knit group. Predictably I was not invited, but my good friend Sandra and I were both surprised to learn that her presence was requested. We laughed about the juvenile silliness of the whole thing, but I could tell she felt bad that I was not included on the invitation list. I wasn’t bothered. I have been invited to a very small number of their secretive events, and I spent the entire time feeling uncomfortable and wondering why they invited me.

By the time Monday afternoon rolled around I had completely forgotten that this party was going on. Zibbit was still fighting that high fever, and I was exhausted and frazzled. At 4:30 the phone rang, and the name of the party’s hostess popped up on my caller ID. I am actually embarrassed to admit that I had a fleeting hope that they had suddenly realized that I had been overlooked, and were calling to apologize and offer me a last-minute invitation. I answered the phone.

“Hello?”

“Oh, hello Karli!” she chirped brightly. In the background I could hear dozens of voices talking and laughing.

“Hi Kim. Sounds like you’re having a good time…”

“Oh yes, yes,” she giggled. “Hey listen, I was wondering if you have Sandra’s cell phone number?”

“I- what? You’re going to have to talk louder, I can’t really hear you.”

“Sandra’s cell phone?” she yelled over the din from the partygoers. “We’re trying to reach her but we don’t have her number! We don’t want her to miss all the fun!”

Suddenly I could picture them all there, sitting around a perfectly arranged table in their designer clothes, enjoying themselves over a gourmet spread of hors d’oeuvres. I looked around my house, at the clutter piled in every corner and the dishes towering in the sink. A bottle of Zibbit’s Tylenol had been knocked over, and lay in a sticky purple pool on the counter next to the phone. My hair was unwashed and I was still wearing the sweatshirt that had snot stains all over the shoulders from trying to comfort my sick baby the night before. My kids had both started whining and crying because the movie they were watching had ended. Zibbit was due for another round of medicine, and I found myself wondering how much of the expensive liquid I could scoop back into the bottle from the mess on the counter.

“Karli? Are you still there?” Kim’s voice broke through my thoughts and I struggled to fight back the tears that sprang to my eyes as I listened to the noise of the party on her end.

“Oh. Um, no. I don’t have her number. Sorry.” I felt like a big, fat loser. Used. Rejected.

“Well thank you anyway!” she gushed. “Have a great afternoon!”

“Yeah,” I mumbled, “talk to you later.” I hung up the phone and stared down at the receiver. Tears rolled down my cheeks as I realized that as much as I don’t want it to bother me, it hurt to be excluded. I want them to like me and invite me to join their festivities, even if I don’t really want to join them. Imagining them all there having a great time while I was stuck at home with sick and cranky kids made me feel just awful.

If we were in high school, I would have to call this really really lame.