I would like to RSVP myself as a big fat no to the upcoming Hypeorlando launch party. And here’s why:
I was always shy. As far back as I can remember, I have always had social issues. I was never comfortable in a social setting that was comprised of more than 3 people. To me, that was like being on display, and that was the sign of a sure fire breakdown. I remember running and hiding when my once-a-year relatives would visit. I know what you’re thinking: “Bum-mer, too bad I’m not HER.” Just wait, it gets better.
Oral presentations were fun! I vividly remember standing up in my social studies class getting ready to deliver my report on Galapagos Tortoises (our Funk and Wagnall’s encyclopedia set only went up to “GA” and this has something to do with my Mom, and with the encyclopedias formerly being carried at the local Shop ‘N Go circa 1984) and suddenly experiencing extreme and paralyzing stage fright. I don’t really want to relive the conversation that I had with my bestie after my presentation, because I’m still delicate, but some of the key phrases were: “frantically jerking your head to the left and back every half second,” and “rubbing your palms up and down on your thighs in such a furious manner, all the while using your jeans as kindling for the inferno that you should go ahead and jump into.” Straight out of the mouth of 12 year old babes.
In high school, I rarely went on a second date. I mean, I’m sure there’s a market for cerebrally underdeveloped, spastically giggling, pancaked made-up teenaged mutes, but I’m not sure this was my target audience.
In college, I faced a dilemma. I tried taking Speech 101 twice. No can do! After doing some non-extensive and unabashed research, which merely included me asking my stoned out neighbor who was passed out in the desk next to mine, and him replying through fragmented gargles: “Telecourse, bra” (Evidently, he was also a surfer). So, telecourse it was. For speech. A telecourse for speech. Sad tears.
For some reason, every guy I dated was a social butterfly. They were the queen monarchs of the social scene. Each party or event ended up like this: Arrive at party with boyfriend, said boyfriend gets ready to excuse himself, but tells me to “go mingle!” I conform myself into a mental coma, and end up solo. With my solo cup.
I do want to emphasize that my social anxiety also graciously extends itself to the one on one counterpart. I sure am lucky. I have NEVER been able to make small talk, nor participate in small talk in any way. I have no small talk skills nor skillz. I have neither. On the receiving end of the small talk, I’m thinking the entire time-my thoughts are interrupting your futile rambling, and I’m desperately trying to conjure up an intelligent comeback. Which never happens. On the giving end of the small talk, I’m experiencing a phenomenon called tumbleweeditis. Google it.
Not only do I have the small talk malfunction, but there’s also a super fun, tweaked out, physical transformation that takes place, special thanks to my anxiety. I have this super cool blinking thing going on. Some might call me a heavy blinker. Some might also notice that I have a really neat eye rolling problem. Yep, right up to the ceiling. My eye contact leaves a lot to be desired, and then there’s the special head twitching. I’ve tried to curtail my random, uncontrolled spontaneous outbursts, but you can’t have everything in life.
So, due to the reasons outlined above, and my shady disposition with jolts of sudden twitched out nerve spasms, please mark me as a “hell no” for the party. My week long episode of anxious mental tirades just won’t allow it.