My life often feels like a large unevenly mixed bowl of Awkward. For example, I went all the way to school and sat down in class with my zipper unzipped. This is a paranoia of mine, yet when it happens, I generally deal with it calmly, except when someone else points it out. Then I experience panic, and thoughts of How did THAT happen? And Am I really that much of a freak??
I try to write about Awkward as little as possible, because it is really painful, at this point in my life, to relive those moments over and over again, and I'd really rather just forget them. Leaving them unwritten and floating around in my cranium to be eventually forgotten works really well for me, thanks.
Except, today, I had one of those moments that I wrote down as soon as it happened, because it was completely ridiculous, and, for once, instead of declaring myself a freak, I decided that I didn't really care what anybody thought, and I just wanted to read my pink, autographed Sarah Dessen book despite the fact that all my coworkers were reading Faulkner and Cummings, and whatever else really, really smart people read. Then I realized that I didn't care because I never cared, and I really should work on the attitude, because I tend to be condescending and pretentious. And yes, I read books that make me think, too, okay?
Now, without further ado, what I wrote at 2:37 p.m.:
I am growing out my eyebrows. I am wearing eyeglasses. I am on the verge of an emotional hurricane. I don't have half the mental capacity of the other tutors. I have the social capacity of a worm.
(I had noticed the tutor sitting next to had his head on his arms. In the world of Sarah Desser, striking up a conversation with someone else, male or female, means great conversations and insightful epiphanies about oneself. Unfortunately, Sarah Desser's characters actually can think on their feet and say the perfect thing that leads to those great conversations. I, in contrast, only know how to interact with others on a very basic level and am practically nil in ability to think on my feet. This wasn't always the case; I think I used to be witty. I'm not sure.)
Me: You okay?
Him: *Silence* ... Yeah. Just been reading for the past four days straight. *Gestures to a mammoth book of poetry in front of him. Lets me look at the author's name. Have never heard of him. Have nothing to say.*
Me: ... Do you have a class this summer?
Him: Do I have a class? *His eyes betray confusion. And ... what is that, repulsion? Ouch*
Me: Are you taking a class?
Him: Oh. No.
*Silence. We're in Brooklyn, but if it had been a place where crickets lived, we would have definitely heard some. Loud ones. The show-off ones who play basketball and get all the Friday night dates.*
Me: Is it for anything in particular?
Him: *Eyebrows show more confusion. Disgust, is it? Wow, anger, too? My goodness, I'm making an idiot of myself. I'm in self-destruct mode now. This is not good on any level. Abort. ABORT.* Oh this? *He gestures toward the Goliath* No. I just like it. But I can't read it for four hours straight.
Me: *I make some sort of murmuring sound. I think it was meant to sound sympathetic. My eyes dart back to my Spanish homework. My head quickly follows. I have nothing to say. There is more silence. Then he gets up and leaves.*
Thus, when I make cryptic comments about how I think people perceive me, I TOTALLY HAVE EVIDENCE TO BACK IT UP.
I embarrass myself. Maybe if I start doing Sodoku or crossword puzzles, my mind will be able to think better in situations like the above. Eventually I might post these: thoughts on the book expo, social security, and miscellaneous. No holding your breath, please. I don't want to be responsible for anyone fainting.
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