One of the hallmarks of social wellness is being inclusive, not exclusive, with our friendship. ―Laurie Buchanan

A recent article in the New York Times describes a phenomenon of gyms requiring applications similar to applying to college including an impressive social media platform and being judged as ‘cool.’ This is a membership process apart from the monthly fee of hundreds of dollars. I think Soho House might have done this, but these are just gyms with no social club attached. I was fascinated by this description of their ideal membership, a “tight-knit community of like-minded individuals including but not limited to entrepreneurs, executives, athletes, celebrities, pre-and postnatal mothers, and more.”

I recall going to a fancy gym in London eight months pregnant and having a young man who was waiting to use the treadmill I was using asking if I planned to give birth at that moment. I wore a variety of flattering oversized t-shirts and leggings and was constantly red-faced and panting. Postnatal, I was chubby, angry, and depressed. All of this is just code for rich, thin, and unless you are Beyoncé or Jennifer Lopez, probably white.

Does ‘cool’ translate as skinny, creative, or fashionable, or is it like high school, you had the drugs? High school created this idea of exclusion, in my opinion. In elementary school, we all more or less hung together. There was the fat kid, the weird kid, the girl whose parents made her wear dresses down to her ankles, the ‘bad’ kid, and the smart one. We were the commie, lived-in-Europe-know-it-all kids who returned from a year living in London in 1968 wearing Mary Quant makeup and miniskirts. Since I was only eleven, I could only represent the miniskirt, handmade by my mother and frequently wraparound, which meant it fell off during tough games of dodgeball. I didn’t care. I was brought up to believe in equity, speaking up against injustice, and constantly making fun of the status quo. Also, unless I invited every single girl in my class to my birthday parties, I wasn’t allowed to invite anyone.

My parents refused to join the local country club despite being white and highly connected to the intellectual elite. The unspoken fact was no Jews or Blacks were welcome, and my parents, Irish American, Harvard educated liberals, were not interested in being included. Each time I gained a footing in a group identified as ‘cool,’ I tossed myself out. At some point, I was told that my refusal to care about what other people thought of me and the choices I made, stylistically, politically, musically, and socially gave me that status so I went underground, seeking those who were marginalized or friendless, those that struggled to make friends and those that were deemed unimportant.

However, I had standards. I preferred smart people, funny people, brave people, and kind people. I dated men based on whether they accepted my independence, my intelligence, and my need to always be right, even though I frequently admitted I was wrong later. Also, they needed to be handsome, which is awful, but we all have our Achilles heels. When I got sober, there was a ‘cool’ kid’s group in New York City consisting of artists, musicians, famous actors, writers, and people like me who were invited in because I didn’t care whether they liked me or not. I tossed myself out and started attending meetings in Harlem before it was gentrified, where I was tolerated and protected. Here’s the best part, ageism. After sixty, your status is neutralized. No matter how skinny, rich, and mean you are, you are starting to enter the world of the old, the narrow path that leads inexorably to the same lunch table.

—Molly Moynahan, author and writing coach

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