It really is just me, isn't it?

I found myself feeling isolated at a wedding reception not too long ago, unsure of what to do about it except perhaps monopolize the restroom.

I only knew two people there, my husband and the groom. Well, OK, I knew my children as well, and was considering planting myself in the midst of the attendant children, parked in front of a TV.

The party had divided very strictly along gender lines. It was being held at the home of the newlyweds, and all the men were in the garage. All of the women were in the kitchen. The children were in the living room. I ping-ponged between the three rooms, feeling rudderless and unsure.

I am not normally comfortable in gatherings of women, even women I know. All those cliches I resented when growing up seem to manifest themselves.

Growing up, I resented most of the stereotypes about women – that they're catty and back stabbing, obsessed with shoes, competitive. I wasn't any of those things, and I was female. Therefore, went my flawed, syllogistic reasoning, other women aren't either. Yet the older I got, and the more time I spent in single gender gatherings, the more I had to concede that a great many females were.

The women at the reception tried to include me in the conversation, but almost all of them were friends of the bride, whom I'd never before met, so I was already outside the group. I also had very little to contribute to the topics of conversation. There was a great deal of discussion about the best place to get your nails done, the best stylists to ask for, the best procedures to have. Since I have never had a professional manicure in my life, and don't plan to ever have one, all I could do was look interested and smile. At that point, volunteering that information, and the fact that I'd rather have unanesthetized dental work than a pedicure, would have gone beyond "out of place" to "downright rude."

Wandering out into the garage to talk to the men provided no solace. Normally, I get along with men better than I do with women. Here, not only did it stand out that I was the only female, and probably as such defiling the workshop where the groom tinkered with his cars, but I had even less to contribute to that conversation.

"My Chevy's worth ten of your Ford."

"My Ford's twice as fast as your Dodge."

"My Dodge eats Chevys for breakfast."

It was ridiculous. There is no place for me in a conversation consisting entirely of male posturing and brand loyalty.

In the living room, where I frequently went to "check on my kids, and make sure they're behaving," the children wondered why I, an adult, was in their space at all. My kids wished I'd be like the other kids' parents and leave them to their own devices.

You can only go to the bathroom so often, and I'd already admired all the artwork on the walls. It was just excruciating. I don't drink, and I wasn't working. Normally, I'm taking photos during any wedding receptions I attend, but there was no camera to be a safety blanket. The food wasn't ready to eat yet, and I wasn't one of those preparing it, so I had to find some way to bide my time while I tried in vain to become invisible. I've been working on that since childhood, but having no success.

I was always a deep and fervent believer in the idea that people are basically the same. Part of that is just my nature, and part of it is my tendency to be extremely literal. How many times, and in how many ways, have you heard the message that, despite any differences, we're all the same inside? Exactly. I took those statements at absolute face value.

Women tend, too, to espouse the idea of universal sisterhood, the idea that no one can understand a woman like another woman can. That makes sense, doesn't it? For instance, my husband will never be able to accurately imagine what menstrual periods are like, let alone childbirth or nursing. And yet, I continually find myself feeling very alone and alien indeed when surrounded by women.

I was recently sitting with a group of women planning an event together. One woman was describing her disappointment while working with another group, planning a luncheon. "And I asked one woman to make potato salad, and she went out and bought an Albertson's potato salad." (You have to imagine the tone of voice here; it was the same as if she'd said, "…and she brought a bowl of mouse droppings.") "I mean, can you imagine? I specifically asked her if she could make something! If that's the kind of luncheon I wanted, I could have gone down to Albertson's myself and bought something."

It reminded me of the outrage my sister in law displayed after attending a wedding reception. There was apparently a hullabaloo over the serving of some cookies. Several women had volunteered to make cookies for the reception, but once there, great bickering ensued over whose cookies went where and most especially, which ones were served first. "The cookies she made were so much more consistent in size and color, but they had to put this other woman's cookies out there first." (Imagine, again, that mouse dropping tone of voice.) "So her cookies were left sitting in the kitchen, where no one could see them, while these other ones went out on the table…" She was truly angry about the whole thing.

I simply cannot imagine any circumstance in which I would be concerned about these things. No one was under any kind of obligation here; if they brought something, you ought to be grateful. You serve it with a smile. If you personally don't like it, don't eat it. If you don't want a deli container on the table, dump the food into a china bowl before you serve it. What if the woman who bought potato salad did it because she's a terrible cook? I cannot fathom being angry or worked up about it in any way. Among women, that puts me squarely in the minority.

Maybe part of the fact that I can't get worked up about shoes, a frequent female point of conversation, is my feet themselves. I have wide feet, large bunions and fallen arches. I can't walk around in little slip of nothing sandals unless I want to be in pain for a couple of days afterward. Ditto for heels of any height. I need practically orthopedic footwear, so I'm not going to be a fashion plate in this area. Truth be told, though, I am not a fashion plate in any area, so if I had perfect feet I might still wear frumpy shoes. If I had my way, aside from special purpose footwear – snow boots, water shoes – I'd only own three or four other pairs. Instead, I find myself owning a dozen or so and feeling aggrieved that I can't wear the comfortable shoes with the dressy clothing, or the white shoes with the black pants.

           I was cast as a nursing home resident in a play produced at a local community theater when I was 35. Community theaters generally run on small to tiny budgets, so I had to bring in most of my own costumes. I borrowed my mother's clothes, since she's roughly my size and was the same age as my character, but I wore all my own shoes. Other women could not believe it, and certainly could not believe that I would admit it. I was left thinking, "They're loafers, for crying out loud. What's wrong with loafers?"

You'd think that childbirth would be an area in which most women can agree. No-o-o-o. Since I've also had both natural childbirth and Cesarean sections, you would think that my ability to relate to other women would increase. You'd be wrong.

I was discussing having my first child with a friend of mine. I told her that the hardest part was going 26 ½ hours without sleep. "There's nothing quite so exhausting as watching the sun come up knowing that you haven't had any sleep and there's still a lot of work ahead."

"Oh, I know what you mean," she said. "Then you start feeling like you're a total failure, like even your body doesn't work right, like you can't accomplish a simple little thing women have been doing for millions of years."

I know I should have just agreed with her. But, it had never occurred to me to view the experience that way. I was taken totally by surprise and my penchant for total disclosure, no matter what, reared its head. "Well, no. I felt sleepy and upset that there was no sleep on the immediate horizon." She thought I was both lying and belittling her. I thought she was oversensitive and slightly bizarre. It was not a female bonding experience.

Having had three emergency C sections after that, I cannot relate to women who choose to have them. I've heard all the reasons – you get to choose the baby's birthday, you get to choose the time of day, you get to avoid labor and any of its complications. There's subsets to each of those reasons that I could name as well. I still disagree. Not only would I never choose to have major surgery if there was a way to avoid it, the recovery between the two births is a no contest. After my first delivery, I was out of the hospital within hours, and I went shopping with my sisters in law that afternoon. After my first Cesarean, I was on a morphine drip for 3 days. Sneezing was agony, and just getting to the toilet was an ordeal. When I finally left the house almost two weeks after going home, I nearly passed out in the grocery store.

I also hate the required hospital stay. Having had emergency situations, I understand why it's safer to be in a hospital than at home. Still, after the baby's here and fine, I want to go home. I want to sleep in my own bed. I want to nurse on my couch. I want to be surrounded by my family, not hospital staff. No matter how nice they are, they're not my family. These are more feelings that I've discovered are better left unshared. The majority of women I've discussed this with felt that they needed more time in the hospital. They were upset that hospital policy or their insurance wanted to release them before they were ready to go. One friend of mine insisted on staying for 5 days after her natural delivery, and paying for it herself since her insurance wouldn't. "Can you imagine that they wanted to send me home after only 12 hours?" she asked in outrage. I simply cannot relate. That sounded ideal to me. After my last delivery, another Cesarean, I started asking as soon as I woke up, "When can I go home?" They were overly patient while giving me the speech about how I had to wait for at least 24 hours. "So, at 25 hours I can go home?" I pressed. The nurses were unamused.

And so, I have yet again nothing to say when I'm in a group of women saying things like, "I love the hospital! You get to lay in bed and watch TV all day, they cook for you, they clean up, and somebody else gets to take care of your kids." I'm also one of the few women I know who insisted on "rooming in," having the baby in their room. With my oldest, I took everyone's advice and had her taken to the hospital nursery. Never again. I was absolutely fierce about the babies coming with me after that. I cannot relate when women say, "I loved it when they took him/her to the nursery." So, I stand in these groups and smile and say nothing. Or, if asked directly, I give my opinion and leave everyone else thinking that I'm just being contrary, probably to get attention, or that I'm alien somehow.

Maybe it's because I'm a photographer, but I'm also at a loss when I watch people get literally hysterical over what someone will be wearing for a photograph. I remember being in school and listening to peers relate stories in which a parent said, "You are not wearing that!" or, "I am not sending photos out to all your relatives with you looking like that!" The funny thing to me was not that they were vetoing an outfit or hairstyle on its merits alone. These were things the kids wore to school all the time. Where their parents drew the line was not in owning it or wearing it in public. They saved their ire specifically for being photographed in it. I thought that was odd. I still do.

Now, of course, I'm the parent. I still don't understand.

Years ago, we went over to my sister in law's house to take family photos. While several family members got ready, my ten year old niece asked if she could do my daughters' hair. At five and six years old, they were delighted by the idea. Their cousin was a glamorous big kid offering to spend time with them. Plus, they'd get to feel pretty. They were happy, I was happy, my niece was happy. Off they went, and she fussed and jabbered like a veteran hairdresser.

My sisters in law were appalled. "You're letting Nicole do their hair?" Well… yeah. They thought this was the worst idea they'd heard in a long time, and couldn't believe that they couldn't talk me out of it.

The photos are darling. Both my girls are beaming. If you look very closely, you can see some visible bobby pins in their hair. Big deal.

As a photographer, I've watched people argue until they are in tears about what will or won't be worn in a photo. Senior portraits are a prime breeding ground for that kind of strong feelings. I usually intercede and suggest some in the child's favorite clothes and makeup, and some in the mother's favorite (it's almost always Mom who has issues.) That usually works. Still, no matter how often I see it, I'm a bit puzzled. My mother said nothing to me about what I wore for my senior portraits, and I said nothing to my daughters about what they wore. My usual standards applied – is it clean, weather appropriate, modest? OK then.

Once, a client asked me what her daughter should wear for her senior portraits. Intending to explain that I didn't think the photos were about the clothes I said, "Well, one of my daughters wore a T-shirt and jeans."

"Oh!" she gasped. "I would never tell my daughter that. She'd actually wear a T-shirt!"

I am not mortified when someone sees the dust bunnies at my house. Everyone has them. I do not need a new outfit for special occasions. I do not need to receive flowers. My husband has sent me flowers exactly twice in over 20 years, and I'm OK with that. I do not like expensive jewelry. I've told my husband repeatedly that if he ever feels like spending that kind of money on me, he can take me on a trip.

Getting hysterically possessive about your purse or wallet doesn't make sense to me, either. Of course, my kids have to ask before they go into my purse to get gum or money, but that's a matter of common courtesy. If my husband's taken cash out of my wallet I want him to tell me so I know where it went, and also so I don't get stuck at a checkout counter somewhere without any money. Again, courtesy. I don't understand a total hands off approach.

Years ago, when I was in a local play, this attitude was challenged. In the dressing room during the show one night, one of the actresses asked if anyone had change for a dollar so she could use the vending machine. Several people said no, so I said, "I do, but I've got to go onstage. My purse is on the back of my chair. Go ahead and get my wallet out; just be careful, because my wedding ring's in the change compartment. Don't drop it."

She was astounded. "I couldn't get into your purse!"

"Sure you can. You don't want to wait until I get back, and I've got to go. The scene's almost over."

"I can't! I can't just go in your purse!"

             I was getting exasperated. "Gretchen! I've got to go! If anything's missing, I'll blame you, OK?"

It was not OK. I had to risk missing my cue because she wouldn't touch my purse. I found it very odd.

So, I find myself rattling around group functions, smiling and wanting to leave. I can't imagine what to say to people that I don't know. I have a hard enough time with people I do know.

It got a bit better at the gender divided reception when the food was served. Then, I had something to do. Still, I was glad when the reception was over and we could all go home. It took a long time for the muscles in my back to unclench, though.