Introversion, Part II

I really like being alone
I really like being alone

After rereading yesterday’s post, I think it came across a little darker and more depressing than was intended. Maybe this next post will clear things up because I’m actually comfortable with my awkwardness now that what I always considered to be a major personality flaw can be explained with one simple word.

I’m an introvert. (It almost sound pleasant, like something you might actually want to be, doesn’t it?)

Being an introvert means that if I don’t know you and we’re in a situation where our conversation will be limited to no more than three to five minutes, then we’re good. Any longer than that and my brain is too busy focusing on how to escape than concentrating on what to say next. For example, if we’re in an elevator and getting off at different floors, I’m more than happy to talk. If that elevator gets stuck indefinitely, I’m more concerned about my end of the conversation than if we’re going to end up in a bloody heap at the bottom of the elevator shaft.

Being an introvert means that when I’m at an event where I’m expected to act my age and pretend I’m not having thoughts like “what would happen if I spanked that 87-year-old man’s ass and yelled out ‘Looking good, Gramps!‘” and have to be all “reserved” and “appropriate,” then the second I leave, I immediately act like a four-year-old who just downed a half a dozen large Pixy Stix (the ones in the big, fat, plastic tube — not the small ones in the paper straws.) My poor husband can attest to this because as soon as we’re in the the safety of the car leaving any adult gathering (not adult as in XXX rated, adult as in a funeral, or his work holiday party where I’m surrounded by professionals talking about professional things that I know nothing about, or any event where fart jokes aren’t going to be well-received) I’m kicking off my shoes, sticking my feet in his face (even though I am fully aware that this is unsafe while he’s operating heavy machinery,) messing with the radio, opening and closing the windows/sunroof – generally being a total mental case. The length of this ‘decompression’ depends on how long we’d been there, but almost always ends with him yelling, “Oh my God, will you stop!?” He’ll have to repeat this at least three times until I understand by his tone of voice that he’s seriously had enough of my stupidity. Like, seriously.

Being an introvert means that texting is my best friend. When my phone rings, I panic at the notion that someone wants to talk to me right now. Receiving a text means that I can reply at my leisure, having edited the text multiple times to be sure that the words I’m composing will most accurately express my thoughts. Do you have any idea how many times I will edit have edited this paragraph before posting it? (hint: a wicked lot)

Being an introvert means that when I’m standoffish, it’s not because I’m a vicious snob. It’s because I’m sure any conversation I try to engage in will be painfully awkward for everyone involved.

Being an introvert means that, as much as I cherish being around people I know, I also enjoy being by myself. And regardless of how quiet I am when I’m around people I don’t know well, when I’m comfortable with someone, I babble on until I’m sick of the sound of my own voice. So I’m not a sociopath, or a hermit, or a recluse, and there’s no cause for alarm that I might be torturing baby animals in my basement (ugh, that would make such a mess!) I just value my alone time because it keeps me stable and sane. (Or does it? Did you see what I did there? The power of suggestion, right?)

Also, today might be my birthday, so you should probably send me some birthday love (you know, just in case…)

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