The Disney Princesses of Selfies
The Disney Princesses of Selfies

The acronym FOMO – Fear Of Missing Out – is prevalent now thanks to a negative side effect of social media (mostly facebook.) When a photo is posted on facebook, it is often the result of a group selfie, retaken because Cindy didn’t like her smile, retaken again because Kathy had her hand in front of Erika’s face (she’s always doing that,) retaken yet again because Sandra blinked, with the final result being a picture adequate enough to post what appears to be the most epic evening overflowing with lush cocktails, gourmet appetizers, and enough laughs and hugs and camaraderie to put everyone lucky enough to be in attendance in a state of zen for the next three months. Or at least until the next event, which will be equally – if not more – incredible.

I’m torn somewhere between FOMO and FOBI – Fear Of Being Included. As a human being, it’s only natural to feel a sense of… I’m not sure exactly what to call it… a twinge of jealousy mixed with a small amount of anger mixed with a larger dose of decreased self esteem. I know most of the people that were there so how come I wasn’t invited? I don’t get more than a few moments beyond that thought when I snap out of it, already knowing the answer. Had I had been invited, I still wouldn’t be in the picture because I wouldn’t have gone — I don’t want to be there. As a result of my textbook introversion (I’ve previously posted about it here and here) the idea of being invited to fend for myself in a social situation with a large group of acquaintances sets loose a crippling mix of anxiety and panic. I have forced myself to overcome this affliction in the past with mixed results. I have been known to have fun every now and again without the safety blanket of my husband or a close friend I can rely on to guide me through awkward small talk. On the other hand, there have been times where I have suffered through some unbearably stiff gatherings that left me lecturing myself the entire car ride home while I replay every single word I had said in order to berate myself for my social incompetence. (“Ugghh, why would I ever tell her that? I am Such. A. Loser!”) Then I get home and curl myself into the smallest ball possible while digging my head into the crevice between the couch cushion and my husband’s leg in an attempt to burrow underneath him and away from myself. He’ll laugh and tell me I’m a mental case while I agree and tell him I don’t want to talk any more words.

As I get older, I’m dealing with this less frequently, probably due to one of two things — either there’s so much other stuff going on that’s so legitimately more important that I can’t be bothered with worrying about my insignificant insecurities, or my attempts at avoiding such situations have been so successful that I don’t come across them very often any more. I don’t really know if that’s good or bad. But I do suspect that there are many more of you out there that feel the same way. Sadly, we won’t ever meet because it’s too scary. Hit me up, all you fellow FOBI’s so we can form a club of non-inclusion from the quiet comfort of our safe, isolated surroundings.

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…)

Introversion, Part I

oh God, the smell...
oh God, the smell…

This one’s going to take a while and that’s why you’re reading Part I. I don’t know how many parts will end up here, but bear with me because this is way cheaper than therapy.

In elementary school I don’t recall having an issue making friends. Everyone seemed to be okay with each other regardless of gender, hair color, race, amount of cooties, etc. Anything could be overlooked – in fact my best friend at the time was someone who had vomited on my workbook in kindergarten. And the reason I remember her vomiting on my workbook so clearly was because, not only is it pretty unforgettable to have someone turn to you and vomit on the page where you’re currently working on your fine motor skills by tracing a line through a circular maze without touching the sides, but when your teacher decides the best course of action is to simply wipe the vomit off the page so that you can continue to use the same book for the remainder of the year, you are reminded every time you turn the wrinkled, stuck, fetid pages. Which is often. So throw up wasn’t a deterrent from forming a friendship, being comfortable around people wasn’t a chore, and I was so uninhibited that I was actually the annoying, disruptive kid with the most amount of X’s on the conduct chart (sorry, Mrs. DeBenedictis.)

Somewhere around 5th grade that all changed. I don’t know if it’s more related to a series of events that resulted in me going to school every day for the second half of the year having no one (except for the teachers who seemed oblivious to the situation) speak to me at all unless it was to make fun of my pants or call me a loser or in any other way make me feel worthless – which totally worked* – or if my human psyche didn’t agree with some growth or adjustment stage I may have been going through, or if it was any combination of the two. Whatever the cause, I became cripplingly shy. I went from having no problem talking to anyone to feeling that I had a legitimate social disorder. Entering middle school only made it worse, and I have never again felt comfortable talking to someone I wasn’t already thoroughly familiar with. (You have to see the contradiction here – I don’t have a lot of friends because I’m uncomfortable talking to people, but I’m not comfortable talking to people that I’m not already friends with.) Somewhere along the line I went from acting like a total moron for cheap laughs in front of my whole class to wanting to be completely invisible. For example, in 6th grade the kid that sat next to me in Spanish class was funny, and cute, and had a retainer, and would talk to me a little bit. When I came to the realization that I ‘like‘ liked him, I was done. Couldn’t look at him, felt sick, was sure the expression on my face was obviously and awkwardly projecting my inner turmoil directly at him, which just enhanced this inner turmoil. Never talked to him again. Liked him for years (like, ‘like‘ liked him,) but never talked to him again. I know that this is somewhat normal for middle school, but it’s amazing I made it out of there without having a stroke. (Or maybe I did. It does run in my family. I’d feel better if I could use that as an excuse.)

Luckily I found a good friend who was outgoing and could talk to anyone, so I stuck by her and leeched onto all the friends she easily made. I was her parasitic sidekick. I tried to learn from her, but that would be like someone with no hands trying to learn to play the piano by hanging around with Liberace. My awkward social skills have never gotten any better, but I learned to deal with it in ways that make my life easier. For years I’ve been convinced that I have an undiagnosed social defect. Only recently have I learned that there’s a much less stigmatizing word for it – I’m an introvert.

*There’s a whole separate story here that I don’t have the energy to get into now, but I may or may not share it at another point in time. I don’t want to be stuck in 5th grade forever!  [pours another massive glass of wine]