Kristen Friesen: Gone fishing

Being a teenager wasn't easy. I remember it well: Awkwardness, pimples, an absence of self-esteem coupled with the abundance of raging hormones hell-bent and wreaking havoc on body, mind and soul. It wasn't pretty.

So a good friend of mine, let's call her "Betsy," coped by fishing. At least that's what my mom called it -- "fishing for compliments."

"Don't fish," my mom would say. "Not only is it shameful, but there are consequences. For starters, those who fish, like the fish themselves, get old quick."

In other words, having a friend who fishes is just plain stinky. Still, I had to figure that out for myself. And, frankly, Betsy was a pro.

She had a knack for picking the right friends and producing pity. If manipulation was her game, we were putty in her hands. Given the benefit of my mother's doubt, maybe Betsy's world was murky at best. But, even to this day, I can't judge that book by mere cover. 

Had Betsy been a book, she would've been shelved in the fiction section. Let's make it fantasy. It didn't matter what vision returned her gaze in her mirror, mirror on the wall (although, between you and me, she was lovely). Nor did it help that I'd made her my personal mission and that my thoughtful words of encouragement and inspiration were, in my opinion, nothing short of poetic. I soon came to read between the lines: Perception trumped reality where Betsy was concerned.

She was the definition of downcast, the poop of the party, the one whose back I patted and tears I dried. She kept me on my toes and in tow -- often chasing after her as she made a predictable beeline for the girl's room, her undies in a bunch. Every blemish on her face was a dagger in her heart, every pound on her thighs was a weight on her shoulders and every boy who didn't look her direction was a reminder to her of her own insignificance -- at least that's what she would have us believe.

And then one day it hit me. Betsy was beginning to bug me, the way an odor can give you a headache and something fishy can make you prickle. And I was tired of being thrown back, like a too-little fish unable to satisfy an insatiable appetite.

I began to wonder what would happen if I redirected the time spent consoling Betsy, singing her praises and swearing she didn't look fat in those jeans. Might I even have a little fun? And, really, hadn't we spent enough time in the girl's room?

So I backed off. When she got gloomy I pretended not to notice. When she baited me with complaints about her appearance or lack of talent I became deaf. The more muscle she applied to reeling sugar-coated words from my mouth, the more I clammed up. In essence, our friendship went belly-up.

I'm not exactly proud of the way I handled my desperate friend and, as an adult, I like to think I'd do things differently. Hopefully I'd recognize a sick puppy at the other end of the fishing pole.

And, truthfully, I should thank her. While I can't say I've managed to escape fishing all together, I'm ever aware that the sifting sand at the water's edge is perilous footing, a short fall from "in too deep." Maybe that's due, in part, to my mother's words swimming around in my head. But, more than likely, it's because my nose still crinkles when I think of Betsy.

The rest of the story (as I know it) ends better than any fiction I've read. Betsy is all grown up, simmered down and thankful for even little fish here and there -- because little fish are better than no fish or, worse yet, a boot. And that's what she finally reeled in when she married a man who, soon after the wedding, was diagnosed with narcolepsy. Talk about a swift kick in the pants! Seems the stress of convincing Betsy that he loved her put him right to sleep.

Just goes to show that too much fishing can wear a body out.

Kristen Friesen is a wife and mother of three girls and lives in Grand Island. She grew up in a house on Cottonwood Drive in Lincoln, where she learned much of what she passes on in this column. Contact her at hervoice@theindependent.com.