I’m the sort of person who has very few friends. A scant (if beloved) handful, really. Though much of the world seems able to keep a village, a cell phone or an address book’s worth of fast friends, drinking companions, nodding acquaintances, amiable co-workers and just-entertaining-enough relative strangers. Not since junior high have I had more than three people to call should I find myself at loose ends or inadvertently fallen down a well. Wait, untrue; I also enjoy an unwholesomely functional and devoted relationship with my stellar mother, so make that four individuals whose names I could call out from a gurney.
If I were to obfuscate and play coy or channel my inner Goth, I would tell you that I’m a loner through intention; that I am just misanthropically blessed with a cultivated eye for only the very highest of quality in other humans. I could peevishly claim that most people are stupid and boring and while this would be true, it’s not the real reason behind my lifelong dearth of pals.
I’m just shy. Bashful, retiring, timid or dull-whatever you want to call it, bubba, that’s what I am. I’m miserable at parties, shifty and dumb when introduced to anyone at all and I will pass out if forced to address more than two other humans at any given point in time. Nicely dovetailing with my Anxiety Lite, at its worst my shyness has compelled me to turn around and drive home rather than brave parallel parking in front of a sidewalk full of people. Multiple times. And while I used to blush maroon and stammer helpfully so that my handicap was obvious, somewhere along the way (likely after breeding; nothing like toting a squalling chimpanzee around for years to burn the blush reflex right out of you) I outgrew those social indicators and for years have been mistaken as aloof, cold, detached, imbecilic or, on more than one occasion, arrogant.
So those of you who would rather belly crawl through a field of punji sticks than get behind a lectern, who would rather eat your own gall bladder than attempt unchaperoned conversation with a stranger, I’m feeling you, compadre. What can be done? Not a whole hell of a lot. I’ve tried most everything short of Toastmasters, and that is just never going to happen.
The best I’ve come up with so far is a complex cabalistic methodology called “faking it.” Perhaps you’ve heard of it? Goes something like this:
- Deep breaths.
- Eye contact-yes I said eye contact.
- Take up space, like you own the room-arm over the
back of your chair, legs loosely crossed. Get those
cuticles out of your teeth.
- Vividly picture everyone in the room as a group of
mellow dogs. Perhaps they’re playing a friendly game
of Baccarat, or smoking happy blunts. They’re all
fuzzy and mild, wanting only to benignly ignore you or
exchange a few ass sniffs. Indulge them. If you’re
dog-phobic, make it wombats..
I’m pulling for you. Quietly.
populargirls@tabletmag.com
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