Walking, Talking Anxiety

When It's Definitely Akward

Ok. Here it goes; I suffer survivor's guilt. Survivor's guilt from traumatic social experiences.

First things first; I'm one of the worst person in social situations you'll meet.
And this is a story that's pure existence exemplifies this.

So, I'm an introvert. No surprises there. But. That's not necessarily what this story's about.

This story is about my extremely weird and abnormal concentration on the Cringe Factor.

But, Eleanor, what is the Cringe Factor?

Great question: it's the level of cringe within any situation.

Basically, I have this weird habit of over analyzing any and every social encounter, and in really stressful situations, stuff like this happens:

I'm a huge reader, or at least I was, until High School walked over and was like, "hey. All this time you have? Yeah, all of it's gone now."
And then you have no life anymore.

But in Middle School, books were my jam. Most kids get in trouble because they stay up too late playing Nintendo. I got in trouble because I stayed up until 2 am reading. The best part: it's not like my parents could do anything, because what were they going to do, take away my books?

I preferred reading to socializing beyond the two friends I already had, which kind of screwed me over later on, but at the time I was perfectly content on ignoring Middle School stupidity, believing that if I ignored it, it would ignore me.
Didn't work. Still doesn't.

Not the point.

But, anyways, in language arts near the end of the year, we were reading this book series for middle grade that had become super popular. I fell in love with it.

And the best part was, the author was coming to our school to give a talk and book signing. You know where this is going.

I was super excited: I had always wanted to be a writer, and I loved her books. So, naturally, I went.

But the disorienting thing about having social anxiety (I'm diagnosed), is that it leeches on your ability to function as a human being. Many of you can relate.

The nervousness started to settle in on the ride there. What if she wasn't nice? What if she hates me? Which slowly, just kidding, very quickly spiraled into: Am I even good at writing? What if I never reach her level? Just the average exsestential middle schooler crises.

But arriving set the excitement into action, buzzing under my skin.

Then of course, I enter the library, and everything crashes in my stomach again. I was actually going to meet her.

As we're listening to her speak, I begin to develop a little Ash Ketchum thinking, a little false confidence in myself. Then she mentions her birthday: November 4th.

The same as mine.

That, for some stupid, astronomical reason is the best thing ever to 7th grade me. I guess it kind of placed my dreams a little closer to reality. But this information is very important. Because it, along with this newly developed confidence, screws me royally.

So, the book signing begins, and I'm sandwiched akwardly in between a bunch of extroverted, chatty fan girls. Not the best situation for someone with social anxiety.

As I get closer, I notice that the  author's super nice and welcoming, which is only slightly reassuring. Because I'm not that.
Just to give you the full picture, I'm often described as 'intimidating' because of my frown-set features and my tall hight. What if she doesn't like me?

When it's finally my turn, and I become extremely nervous, fumbling around with my books and whatnot, trying my best to act normal, but actually just acting like a miserable preteen.

But, more than a nervous wreck, I'm THE WORST at conversation starters. So, here's a word by word account of what incredibly stupid thing came out of my mouth:

"My birthday's November 4th, too." She just stared at me. And stared. Until I realized what I said, and also that I was holding up a line of impatience middle schoolers.

Wow. Just, wow. How am I that socially inept? I don't know. I'll never know. I mean, she stared at me like I was crazy, and honestly, I kind of was, because who says that to your favorite author?

And, even worse, was the five seconds I stood there akwardly waiting for a response.

How do you even respond to a statement like that?

You don't, because it's a statement. A really akward statement made by a really regretful preteen.

I'll be honest, in the beginning, I was partly hurt and angry with her for being so nice with everyone else when she basically didn't even say anything to me.

But as a more grown person, I recognize that she was probably just weirded out and thrown off guard.

Needless to say, every once in a sleepless night, I'll be laying around and then BAM, this memory will pop up.

This stuff is the stuff of horror movies. I'm never getting over this.

It's like, sometimes, my brain thinks it's an evil mastermind and pulls up the most embarrassing moments of my life just to torture me.

Anyways, rant over. The cringe is high with this one.