You know that panicked dream where you’re back in high school, taking finals for a class you don’t remember ever attending? I’ve had similar out-of-body experiences lately, almost every Sunday evening.

I imagine that a group of pretty, popular ladies invite me to exclusive events only to start weekly whisper campaigns about my relationships and finances. They’ve made messing with me their dedicated project, to the point of consulting official government documents — all without breaking a sweat or a nail.

Then I come to, and realize it’s not high school, because I’m a successful 54-year-old. It’s just my teenage flashbacks from the mean girl goings-on each week on Bravo’s “The Real Housewives of Potomac.” The show itself can be fun in an escapist way, but this season seems heavier on the emotional bullying and petty petulance that brings me right back to being the awkward Baltimore girl with the big glasses tripping over her violin case on the Number 3 MTA bus.

Reality shows are rarely reality, and the cast members might be nice people off-screen. But they also knowingly and publicly act this way under their own names, so I don’t know what to tell you. Y’all are closer to retirement than recess, and this is how you choose to be? This isn’t a trifle. It’s triggering.

“Potomac,” the Baltimore and DMV version of Bravo’s catty reality juggernaut, is not alone in its reliance on grown women verbally eviscerating each other for gasp-worthy meme moments as they wear tight chesty dresses over dinners they barely eat.

But I relate to Gizelle Bryant, Ashley Darby, Wendy Osefo and the other Potomac ladies in a way I don’t with the ladies of Atlanta, Beverly Hills or Salt Lake City. I don’t know them personally, but there are some parallels. I went to high school with Pastor Jamal Bryant, Gizelle’s ex-husband and a former cast member. I recognize a lot of the local haunts: Monique Samuels held a book launch at Oleum in Fells Point recently, and Keiarna Stewart’s med spa is less than a mile away.

Also, the show captures this area’s specific flavor of Black bougieness, of which I’m a lifelong participant — in a less mansion and boob-forward way.

Some of this is a cute reminder of my DMV-adjacent life. But when the ladies (especially Gizelle and Ashley,) flash their whitened teeth, fang-like, and don’t let go, it makes me want to hide behind the couch. And then go to therapy.

The way that they treat, say, sweetly clueless fan-favorite Stacey Rusch or house-hopping former NFL wife Angel Massie reminds me of growing up as the weird girl whose hair never laid quite right, who couldn’t dance, didn’t listen to the right music and was told she acted like a white girl. Like, I can almost feel the weight of my 1986 bifocals and Molly Ringwald-esque pink argyle sweater vests.

The mean girl playbook seems to be focusing your efforts on one or two unlucky targets, and then unleashing all of your nastiness on them with the energy one might expend on, say, a job. And in the case of the Housewives, it is their job; cast members without storylines don’t stay cast for long. I wouldn’t be surprised if some of the broad strokes are encouraged or engineered by producers.

What chills me is the cackling glee on Ashley’s face when she corners and demands that Stacey confirm her divorce from husband Thiemo, as if this information affects Ashley’s life in any way. It’s the way that Gizelle tells Angel, who has recently given birth and gained weight, that she looks so different in photos that Gizelle thought she was a catfish. That implies Angel was purposely pretending to be skinnier and younger when she was sitting there on national TV looking like herself. How could she be trying to fool anybody? Make it make sense.

It’s how Gizelle keeps insisting that Angel was evicted from her short-term rental, even though Angel insists the lease simply ended early. The word “eviction” can have a particularly nasty connotation in the Black community, conjuring ugly stereotypes of broke women in jewels they can’t afford. Nevermind that Angel’s husband Bobby has signed several multimillion-dollar NFL contracts. She probably just didn’t realize how long filming was going to take and didn’t lease the house for long enough.

Yes, this show showcases gossip about people contractually obligated to share their personal lives, but these things have seemed especially petty and mean, girls. (Yes, I meant to do that.)

Look, I’m not saying that Stacey and Angel are innocent naifs. Angel can be dour, and Stacey may or may not have paid a dude to pretend to be her boyfriend last season while she was divorcing her husband, only to quietly reconcile. She lies. She’s a little weird. But when Gizelle makes her supposed bad breath basically a parlor game? Come on.

Some of the women can be so nasty — including Wendy, who herself is currently going through some legal issues — that they make me actively root against them even when their targets are annoying, too. I cheer when Stacey gets a one-up on them, even if she’s lying. And the petty is delicious when Angel invites the group to Colorado and assigns Gizelle and Ashley a tiny room with twin beds.

Last week’s episode ended on a cliff-hanger, when an embarrassed but still haughty Gizelle snapped that she had information that Angel really had been evicted. To which I say: LADY, WHY IS THIS YOUR BUSINESS? Angel just stared her down and basically told her to show the receipts or hush.

I have no idea how this is going to end. Maybe Angel’s lying and Gizelle has a notarized eviction notice and a sworn statement from Tom Hanks. But the sight of mean girls caught off-guard, even momentarily lost for words, did Little Leslie and her tragic glasses some good.