The Middle School Mean Girls Club is Very Much Alive in Adulthood

Volunteering at a local senior citizen center has turned out to be a total delight—though I say unexpected because, honestly, I was perfectly content with my lazy Thursday mornings: maybe I’d exercise, maybe I’d eat bacon, and definitely watch an hour of Perry Mason.

Then a friend mentioned the center was looking for volunteers. So, let’s be clear—it wasn’t exactly a noble, selfless epiphany like, “I have this empty space in my life and want to give back to my community.” Nope. It was more like, “Hmm… free time. Bacon eaten. Perry Mason finished. Maybe I’ll check this out

It was more like This doesn’t sound like it will take much of my time, and I might get a few cookies out of it, so I’ll give it a try.

The job they needed me for was simple: pick up donated baked goods from a local grocery store once a week and deliver them to the senior center. The whole process would take about 30 minutes, so I thought, Sure! Sign me up!

Eighteen months later, I’m still the center’s official baked-goods-drop-off-lady—and I genuinely enjoy it. Over time, I’ve gotten a little more involved, and most of my time at the center has turned out to be genuinely lovely.

Here’s the routine: On Thursday mornings, I swing by the grocery store’s loading dock, grab boxes of cookies, cakes, pies, and breads, and cram them into my car. At the center, the long French bread goes in a basket by the front door so anyone visiting can take a loaf home. The other goodies get carried into the commercial kitchen—cookies for the morning snack, and cakes and pies saved as prizes for bingo later in the day. It’s a small routine, but one that brings a lot of smiles.

Over the weeks, my role naturally expanded. I began setting up chairs and equipment for the chair exercise class, staying to help during the session, assisting a few participants with mobility challenges, and then putting everything away afterward.

After class, the seniors break into small groups in the rec room to play dominoes, snack, and chat until entertainment arrives or it’s time for lunch.

Oh, those sweet, lively older folks!

I may have put my hand over my heart and told another volunteer how thrilled I was to be in the presence of such gentle souls and wisdom. She was kind enough not to collapse into hysterical laughter.

A few minutes later, chaos erupted over a bookmark, and another woman was loudly informed that she wasn’t welcome to sit at a particular table—or enjoy a sweet treat being passed around.

Since spending time at the senior center, I’ve learned something important about women: there will always be a mean girl’s table, and a handful of Queen Bees who wield social intimidation like a weapon—no matter your age.

Adult mean girls - correction, ALL mean girls - engage in hen-pecking where some women are chosen to be in the inner circle at the top, and some women are relegated to the middle, where they can either be permitted into the inner circle or cast aside, depending on their level of butt-kissing. Some women will always be excluded altogether.

I’m not kidding when I say I was genuinely shocked by this.

The naive human in me always believed—and don’t laugh too hard at this—that eventually, each of us would have a lightbulb moment: “I’ve been acting like a b**ch and occasionally channeling my middle-school self. Time to stop and be more aware.”

Maybe my lightbulb moment will come at 65, yours at 51—but eventually, we’ll all learn enough, figure it out, and spend our later years treating others the way we want to be treated. So imagine my surprise seeing octogenarian ladies behaving like middle schoolers at the senior center, where I expected an aura of kumbaya.

Not very fetch, if you ask me.

And really, what’s the harm in letting Betty—or whoever—sit across from you at a table while you offer her a cookie?

Most of the seniors at the center are kind, gentle, and utterly delightful. Occasionally, a few other women try to eat them alive. Some can be noisy, rude, or require a well-timed “shhh,” though that’s only on a bad day.

On a good day, I mingle. I chat here and there, ask someone about their weekend, laugh at a shared joke. I love chair exercise class, especially when I sit in the back with two women beside me. One is usually quiet but hilarious when she thinks no one’s listening; the other is a 92-year-old snappy dresser in bright red lipstick and an armful of bracelets, whose favorite song is Great Balls of Fire by Jerry Lee Lewis.

Thursday mornings like this bring me genuine joy, and I’m grateful for them.

Watching some of the social nonsense unfold—reminders of middle school, high school, college, PTA, and occasionally current life—makes me realize just how insignificant that behavior really is.

If I could go back in time, I’d tell my younger self this: worrying about what other people think is almost always a waste of energy. Wake up, do what brings you joy, and treat others the way you want to be treated. Simple, yes—but somehow also very hard.

Aging is such a strange mix of loss, gain, wisdom, and staying the same. Don’t you think?