Schadenfreude (German: ) is pleasure derived from the misfortunes of others.
Leave it to the Germans to come up with such an exacting word, one I should have known in my teenage years. As much as I tried to convey the opposite, back then, I did actually care what others thought of me. We all do, to different degrees of anxiety. When I was on the receiving end of a bludgeoning remark or act, it stayed with me for years.We all have the scars, inside and out.
Teenagers are basically nuts. Hormone-laden, psychologically challenged narcissists, occasionally making the world a better place, but often…not. Some exist solely to accumulate as much peer collateral damage as possible. It’s a wonder any of us survived.
Girls have it worse. We just do. I could go into all the reasons why, but you won’t read a fifty page post. I was reminded of this recently in my new favorite book, InZanesville by Jo Anne Beard. My husband read it and remarked on the complexity of a teenage girl’s mind.
“Did girls really think like this?”Yes, we did. Sometimes we still do. He also said,
“Is that what happens when girls get their period?” I answered in the affirmative.
“Wow. That sucks!” Yes, it did. It often still does. And the worst kind of
Schadenfreude involves anything of the Period Variety.
I had a science lab partner who hated me. I wasn’t singled out, he hated most everyone. I didn’t help him or show him my test answers, which infuriated him. He’d lost a grade somewhere and was the only sixteen year-old amongst us; he had a shiny blond moustache and a healthy dose of B.O. We traded verbal abuse regularly.
Spring 1988. It’s time for the big all-school meet, and it’s not optional. I find myself, a slightly awkward dork-punk, gearing up to run a race. I had everything I needed, runners, tight bra with obnoxious t-shirt over it, (wouldn’t want people to think I was too excited to be there, right?) and baggy shorts. Not particularly good for running, but very good for hiding an industrial-sized pad that could double as a Barbie mattress.I t was all that was left of what my mom dubbed “The Supplies.” Supplies were down. The troops were dismayed. The troops still had to go to the meet.
I found myself lining up, and who should saunter over next to me but good ol’ B.O. himself.
“Hi,” he says, innocently. I am alarmed, but there is nowhere to go, the gun is about to go off. I shoot him one eyebrow up, my standard look of mistrust and/or annoyance. There is a line-up behind us, each finding their way in the teen cattle herd.
We bend down, crouch into position. B.O. looks over at me and smiles. Fine, kick my ass, see if I care, I think naively.
The gun goes off. I am about to bolt when I feel an abrupt yank, and I am staring at not only my shorts, but my underwear, with a slightly stained mattress pad underneath. B.O. is pissing himself laughing, as are a few people behind me. I grab the goods and yank them up with astounding speed. I can hear the Bionic Woman noise as I become the fastest teenage underwear-yanker-upper on the planet. The gun goes off again, they think we false-started. B.O. gaily takes his position next to me, tittering. He turns to say something but I walk off the starting line and into the crowd. I have no comeback, no wit or verve. I feel I have been…destroyed.
I get harsh words from the Phys Ed teacher for not showing up at the finish line. She tells me to sit the rest of it out, along with some other humiliating put-downs that I have shelved deeply for self-preservation.
Luckily, my network of girl friends have mathematically concluded that only three people ACTUALLY saw, one of who was B.O., and the other two weren’t of such status to do any real devastation.
I so owe him one.
Monday comes and B.O. slides into class just as the bell rings.
“Nice of you to join us, Mr. B.O.”, our science teacher says, another fan.
He spins to sit in his chair, which I have now deftly removed with my left foot, again with Bionic Woman speed.
WHAM! He hits the floor like Goliath. Everyone shrieks out with laughter, as he looks at me, stunned only momentarily, like a hornet. Steam rolls off his head as he rights himself, his chair, and plunks down in it.
I say nothing. I just smile. He is beet red, but nods his head at me. He knew it had to come.