My ex and I ended badly (read: I banged my boss), and I found myself confused, depressed, regretful, and guilty. Then I ran into my ex's posse in a bar. Upon beholding my scarlet letter presence, the XY-chromosome pack erupted in a chorus of the "whore cough" and the "bitch sneeze" whereby, instead of emitting actual guttural sounds, they coughed up the words whore and bitch, the 10-part harmony suffocating my reddening ears as a golf-ball-size lump rose in my throat. I called my brother bawling. "Jill, you need a thicker skin," he advised. "You're nobody unless somebody hates you."
When you're a pariah—even in your tiny petri dish of a social circle, it can be a horrible scourge—you are the one whispered about, burned at the social stake, dropped from so-and-so's party list, snubbed at Sette Mezzo, glared at in Fred's at Barneys, pronounced as Over. Finished. Toast.
It's surprisingly easy to become an outcast. Perhaps the most direct route (and the road I took) to "untouchable" status involves sexual impropriety. At least in this I wasn't alone. There's the popular Connecticut dad who was getting an extramarital trip treat (ahem, a beedge at the wheel), and at climax, crashed into a sycamore; all the blonde—white jeans set froze out the fellatrix, who remains an undesirable in the 203 area code. Then there's the Internet guru who led a double life with his pierced-tongue secretary. And poor Anthony Weiner with that comedic fish-in-a-barrel last name; Congressman Jones would've been forgiven in half the time.
But there are people whose behavior outside the bedroom also garners negative attention: investment bankers who indulge in exorbitant expenditures (the house that ate the Hamptons and so forth); extreme plastic surgery; flashy fashion-victimy getups; over-the-top pleas for attention, any of which can cause blackballing at elite clubs or schools (the hedge-fund wife who hired midgets to serve at her kids' party); or aggressive cougaring. There are those who are arrested for their greed or outed for their illegal business dealings. In our puritanical society, each pariah has fallen prey to his own weakness among the seven deadly sins—an excess of lust, pride, greed, et cetera. Even relatively minor social infractions—nanny poaching, competitive parenting, stumbling drunk at an A-list Christmas party—can cause eyes to roll over lunch at Bergdorf's.
On the flip side, my friend in London tells me that the dishonored become the most desirable dinner party guests—after all, in a world where so many people are utterly boring, isn't it sort of fun to have some color, scarlet or otherwise? Being an outcast builds character. I'm not condoning bad behavior, especially when it hurts others, but often there are two sides to every story, and some of those actions are reactions, transgressions that wrenched their way out, tearing through layers of schooled decorum for reasons sometimes unknown even to the so-called sinner, like cheating on a spouse who has vindictively refused a divorce or escaping an unhealthy relationship by doing physically what your heart can't bear to do: end it.
And God knows the press loves a pariah. One of the latest high-profile offenders is Kristen Stewart, the Twilight actress who was coined a "Trampire" and is being decimated online by Twi-hards around the globe. But look at Tiger Woods; the gory details faded as the moons cycled, he was back in good graces, lauded by fans the world over. Cultural context is a factor as well: When Dominique Strauss-Kahn made headlines in New York, the French scoffed at the whole mess, while Larry Craig's Bible-beating supporters remain horrified by the former Idaho senator's hypocrisy.
My idol Woody Allen was tabloid fodder for weeks when his relationship with Soon-Yi came to light, but their marriage has endured as his longest. Time heals much, and in the end the pariahs get a lovely crash course in human nature. You just have to endure. All told, my own outsidery ordeal definitely made me stronger. As my career has evolved, I've also had random slings and arrows, but they don't pierce me the same way, due largely to the emotional shields I developed during that period. I hope Ms. Stewart saved some of that Snow White armor, but if she didn't she will one day find that time lends her chain mail of her own.
Pictured above: Fashion armor. Gown, Giles, doverstreetmarket.com. Hat, $6,170, Stephen Jones for Giles, doverstreetmarket.com.
Fashion editor: Joanna Hillman. Hair: Teddy Charles for Orlo Salon.
