On Being A Loser

I was a winner once. I’m from New York, but now I live in Vermont. Yes, it really is like a fucking Garrison Keillor story here. We have town meeting days. Everyone waves at you and makes eye contact. And people walk down the sidewalks with hand-crafted ceramic coffee cups instead of normal travel mugs because nobody’s ever in a hurry.

On Being A Loser

On Being A Loser

I was a winner once. I’m from New York, but now I live in Vermont. Yes, it really is like a fucking Garrison Keillor story here. We have town meeting days. Everyone waves at you and makes eye contact. And people walk down the sidewalks with hand-crafted ceramic coffee cups instead of normal travel mugs because nobody’s ever in a hurry.

I got over it enough to run for the board of my local food co-op (upon being recruited). It’s a fairly massive affair, locally, with over eleven thousand members out of our town’s total population of forty-two thousand. I won. I was actually visiting the City, walking down the sidewalk headed for the Broadway-Lafayette subway stop when I received the congratulatory phone call on my cell phone. My first thought was “wow, that many people like me up there? I better get back.”

Well, now let’s not get cocky. It’s three years later and they’ve decided they didn’t like me. I got unseated by a seemingly 19-year-old upstart who was constantly played with her hair during her speech and whose platform was that she’d bring “pizazz” to the board. I’m curious to see how, or why, one brings pizazz to the analysis of endless legal and financial documents. (I didn’t need glasses before my term started.) She brought totebags printed with her name to the annual member meeting. I hated her.

After getting the news that I was a loser, I went to the liquor store, listened to a lot of Beck, and tried to stay off social media. I took refuge in the real news. Donal Trump was bracing for being a loser himself. He said the election was rigged against him. This, of course, was totally stupid. After the co-op called to tell me I was a loser, an email went out to the board telling them that I was a loser. Then the calls and emails started to pour in. Shock, sadness. Not just for me. Due to a series of unfortunate events, one-third of the board would be new. That was going to suck. Especially as we were trying to open two new stores. But it was more shock than sadness. I think they were afraid that they, too, could become losers.

In New York it’s a given that you’re pissed off about something and will freely speak your mind about it. In Vermont, you’re expected to be happy and act like everything is okay because you’ve taken the required herbal tinctures to calm your anxiety. (Maybe you also crafted something involving felt, if needed.) It’s really a horrible burden. So, I knew that when people asked me how I was doing through this stunning and very public defeat, I was supposed to say “I’ll be fine” or “I could use the free time” or “I think the new board members will do a great job”. But fuck that. I do not contain the parts required to generate that shit.

By some sick twist of the calendar, I had a board meeting two days after we all got the news. I would have to face the board. And worse, it’s a public meeting so the winners would doubtless be there even though new terms didn’t start until January. I had three more months before the regime change. The board election results were on the agenda, though. So I practiced. Mostly so I wouldn’t cry.

I could’ve bailed on the meeting, but of course I wouldn’t. I couldn’t maintain my self-righteousness if I slacked off. I decided to sit with my back to the guest seating so I wouldn’t have to look at the winners. Plus then they would see all my notes and highlighting and how hard work is not “pizazz”. That’ll show ‘em.

People said “sorry to hear…” and “how are you”? And I said little. “I lost. I’m a loser. I feel shitty about it”. A New Yorker would slap you on the back, grin and say “Yep. You got walloped. It’s bullshit.” A Vermonter will grimace, give you a pitying nod and try and get out of the conversation as soon as possible. Because sadness is radioactive here.

I spent three years of my life cultivating a strong connection between my community and the co-op. I talked to everyone here. About expansion plans. And donations. And more donations. About working with our elementary school. About traffic. I can hardly think of anyone I haven’t talked with about the co-op. Now it’s over. Fired without cause.

Am I a sore loser? Yes. Is it really bad that totebag-chick ran an effective campaign? No. Is playing with your hair worse than the asthma attack I had during my first campaign speech? They’re both bad. Is the reason that she bugs me that she was there with a former babysitter of ours that we had to fire because she read my husband’s private email on his computer when she was supposed to be watching our toddler? Probably. So, was I a good board member? Yes. The take-home: Democracy sometimes sucks.