Mindy Kaling - Please Like Me (But Keep Away)

Text copyright 2020 by Mindy Kaling

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Published by Amazon Original Stories, Seattle

www.apub.com

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eISBN: 9781542017213

Cover photo by Mike Rosenthal

Cover design by Liz Casal

Illustrations by Abbey Lossing

All photos courtesy of the author

Happy Birthday, Little Mindy

W hen I was nine years old, my parents volunteered to throw my birthday party at our home. I was so nervous I wanted to die. Because my parents are from India, I instantly worried that we would accidentally mess up some important aspect of the quintessential American birthday party: hot dogs and hamburgers, balloons, an ice cream cake, a pointy birthday hat, and most importantly, a party favor bag. Party favor bags were the whole reason kids showed up to these things. Despite being filled with junk (packs of puffy stickers, a yo-yo, novelty pencil erasers, hard-as-rock Bazooka gum), party favor bags were cherished treasures for all. If your parents gave out a party favor bag filled with anything healthy or educationallike a little box of raisins or a ruleryou were done . I was also worried about my house. I loved it, of course, but was it too Indian? Other classmates homes were decorated with framed paintings of mild New England-y things, like trees with leaves changing colors along the Charles River. In our living room, we had large framed tapestries of buxom Indian women dancing in saris. You could see the crests of their breasts in the tiny sari tops they wore. As I looked around my home with the critical eye of an all-American fourth grader, it began to feel very sensual and ethnic. How would that go over?

I worried for weeks before the partythat it wouldnt be inherently American enough, that I would be mercilessly teased as a result, and that my fragile social standing among my fellow nine-year-olds would crumble. Lets face it, I was never popular, but I was friendly and chubby (therefore harmless), and that went a long way. I didnt sleep the night before. What was going to go wrong?

What happened was beyond my wildest nightmares. My mom returned from her trip to Stop & Shop without Kraft Singlesthe centerpiece of any tasteful hamburger barhaving opted to buy the much more gourmet white cheese from the deli instead. This was unacceptable. Cheese, as I understood from other peoples parties and repeated trips to McDonalds, absolutely had to be orange.

Havent you ever seen burgers in commercials? I asked my mom incredulously. They always have orange cheese! I expected her to realize the grave error and immediately return to the grocery store to correct her mistake.

No, they dont, my mom said. And your father likes the Swiss cheese.

Tears filled my eyes, and my mom stared at me, dumbfounded. Swiss cheese? So now not only was it not orange, it was foreign cheese? This was the worst.

Dont worry so much, Mindy. Cheese is cheese.

The phrase cheese is cheese was playing in a loop in my head as I retreated to my room, where I shut the door and cried. Cheese is not cheese. Orange cheese wrapped in cellophane is all-American, proud, and confident. White cheese is cowardly and fraudulent. I contemplated sneaking out to the nearest grocery store, but I had no money and no idea how to get there. I paced my room, going down every path and permutation of a disastrous party, all of them ending with my social banishment forever . Would people go back to school and say how immigrant-y my house was and that it smelled like curry? Would people complain about being titillated by sexy tapestries? Would anyone come to a party I threw ever again?

In the end? Nobody cared what color the cheese was except me. Swiss cheese burgers were devoured without comment. Nobody noticed the scantily clad Indian women on our walls, or if they did, they enjoyed them privately. The Slip N Slide in the backyard was a hit all afternoon, and even though it utterly destroyed our lawn, my wonderful parents said nothing. The party was such a big success that nobody spoke of it even once at school. It was perfectly me: pleasant enough, and then receding from immediate concern.

I loved this hairstyle so much, I had it for fifteen consecutive years.

That party was more than thirty years ago, but my reaction was eerily typical of the kind of social anxiety that I would experience throughout the rest of my life. I sincerely believed that my social life was over forever because my mom put white cheese on the burgers instead of orange cheese. I also genuinely believed that my classmates like or dislike of white cheese would determine their overall judgment of my total being. Forever.

Part of it is that I am pretty judgmental myself, and always have been. If I went to a party with food I didnt like, I would immediately sour on the whole experience and make a mental note to complain about it later to my parents. Sure, I was young and stupid then. But weirdly, this problem hasnt gone away as Ive gotten older and smarter. I still battle social anxiety. Yes, me, Mindy Kaling, the girl who posts about twelve photos on her Instagram from a single Oscar party. Me, the woman who speaks about feminism and empowerment at conferences in front of thousands of people. Me, the actress whom random women on the street routinely ask to be their best friend.

For a socially anxious person, it is both flattering and disconcerting to be asked into the holy sacrament of best friendship by a total stranger. When Im approached at an airport by a smiling thirtysomething woman who says she wishes I was her best friend, I hug her, take a selfie, and think to myself, Oh, sweetie, you have no idea. I dont leave my house.

Theres a misconception that celebrities must love socializing, because all we ever see them do is get dressed up, go to fancy parties, and wait for people to take their picture. But you can be famous and still be shy, a plain old introvert, or even a person with social anxiety. I once read somewhere that what Chrissy Teigen and John Legend feel the most comfortable doing is sitting on the sofa and watching Netflix. I felt seen. It proved to me that you can be funny, glamorous, and smart and still never want to leave your home. But then, a few months later, I saw them on Instagram hosting an elaborate Halloween bash with hundreds of attendees, and I felt so betrayed. You lied to me! I seethed. Im the only one who really loves to sit on the sofa watching Netflix!

The truth is that, even now, I hate being invited to parties or, worse, asked to speak at an event or toast somebody. Its confusing, because I love, even crave, the company of my friends and family. But if I dont know the people well or have control over the situation, I feel uncomfortable and tense.

Im always so impressed by my friends who can just throw together a last-minute gathering. Once my best friend Jocelyn threw a kids Halloween party for a group of a dozen or so people at her home in Brooklyn. The party started at 5:00 p.m. I was attending with my baby, and I said I would be over at 3:00 to help. Oh, we wont be home until 4:00, she replied sunnily. You wont be there until 4:00? I exclaimed. Her plan, she said, was to arrive an hour before the party started, tidy up, decorate, order pizzas, and wait for guests. I almost fainted. Arrive at home an hour before you are expecting guests for a party? What about the twenty minutes of nervous pacing before people arrived? What about hanging decorations and then photographing them to make sure they seemed homespun and not too store-bought-looking? What about brainstorming conversation topics tailored to each guest to prevent awkward pauses? Catastrophizing is my general approach to all social events: how, when, and why it will implode are the first things I think about when Im throwing a party. And that all takes time!