Yes, All the Awkward, the Finale, Part 3

PART 1

PART 2

Before I delve in to the thrilling conclusion of my awkward adventures, I wanted to share some feedback I have received from the first 2 parts. And let's be honest, we all know how this story is going to end - me shriveling up into a tiny ball internally and turning into stone externally. I'm surprised I didn't need to be wheeled off the bus.

Things that have been mentioned in regards to my awkwardness:

Painfully awkward Rob Lowe! If only when I wasn't painfully awkward my life was as swanky as his commercials show his to be!

The only time I'm like my favorite pony, Fluttershy, is when we make this face. 

Post-Hulk Bruce Banner. 

And just for fun:

There's totally an episode where Fluttershy Hulks out. Also, when you Google "Flutteryshy Hulk" you can apparently find Fanfcition based on this pairing.... what. That's. Weird. And anatomically confusing.

This is really getting away from me, so let's progress.

There I am hanging out with Switchfoot on their tour bus before their concert. My eyes bulging, which is scary because I can have some seriously huge eyes, my limbs are shrinking into my body like a t-rex, and I have no capabilities of speech.

Nothing has changed around me except now, I'm dying. 

I mean, I'm wearing a unicorn t-shirt. Actually dying. 

Luckily, as soon as the video ended the band was told they needed to make their way backstage for the show. They said their goodbyes, I said something along the lines of "nefghhhhblegh." We all walked inside, I'm sweating profusely in my white puffy jacket, brain fritzing. My cousin and I walk to main area, watch the awesome concert, and that should have been the end. No harm, no foul. 

But of course not. I wasn't humiliated enough!

As we were walking out, I confessed to my cousin that I had no idea that we were with Switchfoot that whole time and I'm so embarrassed at my naivety.

She asked me what I would have done differently if I had known (she's a counselor) and I said I probably would have asked for their autograph or something. She suggested I go ask them now, all on my own, working on my timidity. 

I gather my courage. I am cool. I can play this off. I am well spoken.

Deep shuttering breath.

I knock on the tour bus door.

I'm so nervous there aren't words. I might vomit. 

"Yes?" Keyboardist. He's like in the back, no big deal!

"WE MET EARLIER AND I HAD NO IDEA WHO YOU GUYS WERE BECAUSE I LIVED OVERSEAS AND UNDER A ROCK AND MY T-SHIRT HAS A UNICORN AND I AM REALLY SORRY YOU AREN'T FAMOUS ENOUGH IN MY LIFE FOR ME TO KNOW YOUR FACES BUT CAN I GET YOUR AUTOGRAPH BECAUSE YOU ARE FAMOUS AND I DID THIS ALL WRONG?!"

"Uh. Sure. What would you like us to sign?" They're really nice guys, I could barely tell they were trying not to laugh.

"Oh. Um. I didn't think that far."

They ended up signing my ticket stub. It's lovely.       

What's your most embarrassing encounter with someone famous?

 

Painfully Awkward, Part 2

Let's recap! (and I have a correction) (Part 1 is the last post)

Upon reflection, on the day I met my not future husband, it was not the first week of class. So I was just late and lazy, not lost.

This is important for me to clarify because I really did put effort in to my appearance when I started school. By the time of this story, we were well in to fall, and I did not care, especially in the morning.

How did I realize this timing mistake? My dear Roomie asked me if I was wearing shoes during this encounter.

The answer was no, I was not. I went through a ridiculous, idealistic college phase where I didn't wear shoes as some kind of absurd protest against poverty and shoeless children. Some idea about being barefoot in solidarity, or something. I was a hipster before hipster was thing. And I had really tough feet.

So, there I am. On the path. Bare foot. I am wearing sweatpants that I had hacked the bottoms off to make them into long, ragged shorts and a bright red Old Navy polar fleece. I have not done my hair or make up, and as it is morning, I am rocking my legendary bed head.

LEGENDARY

I am a hot mess, without any of the hot and extra mess. I am a mess mess. 

And there he is. Jeremy Wariner. In all his glory. Walking towards me in the blinding sunlight. I'm fairly sure there was a heavenly choir in the background. 

And I stand there, frozen solid, looking a mess mess, jaw hanging open. I just stop walking, moving, and thinking. Like a really smelly statue.

And he keeps walking towards me. And then he's smirking. And as I continued not to move at all, he is outright laughing. And then he is right in front of me.

Did I move? Make a cute joke and scrape my rats nest out of my face? Jump out of the way? Anything? No. Nothing. I am made of humiliated stone. 

My not future husband then has to step on to the grass to go around me, howling with laughter. He continues on his way, and that is that. A while later, I turn around and go back to my dorm. I had strong rules about not going to class (am I sick? do I have something due in another class that isn't done? is there something more fun to do? is it raining? am I dying of humiliation? No class).

One more story, for your entertainment.

This one took place when I was fourteen. I was newly back in the United States, complete with significant gap in pop culture knowledge. 

My cousin's friend was the stage manager for Switchfoot, an up and coming band (this was right at the beginning of "The Beautiful Letdown" era). She asked me if I would like to go with her to their concert. 

My first American concert (Amy Grant doesn't count, but man, her Heart in Motion tour was spot on, I don't care who you are) with my cool older cousin?! YES.

I was pumped. I wore my fancy unicorn t-shirt.... puberty was tough on me. 

We met the friend at Starbucks and then he asked if we wanted to see the tour bus.

Uh. Yeah.

We get on the bus and there are other people on the bus, other staff and little people, etc. 

We're all hanging out laughing, everyone is so nice! I'm so cool! Living in the United States is a breeze! I've got this!

Someone asks if we want to see the new music video. 

Uh. Yeah.

 PAUSE: Remember that gap in pop culture? I had no idea who Switchfoot was, other than they were cool and famous. 

We sit down at the back of the bus to watch and as it plays I realize something. 

These aren't little people. They aren't staff. They're the people in the music video.

 I'm hanging out with Switchfoot. 

 TO BE CONTINUED

Hi, My Name is Anna, and I'm Painfully Awkward, Part 1

Most of the time I'm loud, friendly, engaging, all the "typical" signs of an extrovert.

An illustration of this - whenever I take personality quizzes, for example "What My Little Pony Are You?" I always get answers like so:

Pinkie Pie

Thus, it's often shocking to people when they find out that I am introverted. If I do not have significant amount of time in my nest, I turn in to a monster. When I speak in front of people, I get so much adrenaline I cry and my voice shakes. Going places where I do not know anyone zaps all my energy. Meeting famous people, important people, and/or powerful or pretty people turns me in to a babbling idiot and/or crazy person. 

This last point was illustrated in my life a few weeks ago. One of our most important clients was visiting at work, during the negotiations to renew the account. It was stressful for all involved. I was not part of the meeting, but I was very aware of what was on the line. I spent all morning bouncing on my ball (sitting on my ball is often a bad idea, I'm just waiting for them to take it away). 

As I'm bouncing on the ball the client appears over the top of the cubicle, like a jack in the box, to ask directions.

My adrenaline immediately skyrocketed, my bouncing increased, and I start babbling away about various directions, pros, cons, and drawing elaborate air maps with my hand. After this onslaught of information, the client politely said thanks, with the mild look of alarm I often illicit in people in his eyes, and I said "you're welcome," and then I did the one-two finger guns.  

Finger guns.

FINGER GUNS. 

This catastrophe reminded me of previous times I acted a fool.

My freshman year of college was soon after the '04 summer Olympics. If you remember those games, you know who Jeremy Wariner is. He was an amazing runner, broke all kinds of records, always wore his sunglasses and giant diamond earrings, and supposedly had an ego the size of Texas.

I was in love.

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18 year-old me is swooning, 28 year-old me is rolling my eyes

As fate would have it, my freshman year at Baylor was his senior year there. I just knew we were going to meet, fall in love, and have very athletic babies. 

My first week of class I was running late and was hopelessly lost. There was no one around, except one person walking towards me on the path, one very famous person. One very famous person in sunglasses and diamond earrings,..

TO BE CONTINUED

Reading and Mockery are a Few of My Favorite Things

I LOVE reading. Like, I just finished book 9 of 2015. Love it. And I am a very accepting reader. I've even read all of the Twilight books. Twice. In my defense, I read them the first time to see what the hullabaloo was about, and then again because I figured I missed something since there was still said hullabaloo. Sigh.

Despite my ability to read garbage and enjoy it, I have a few pet peeves that  really get my goat.

1. Typos

From my understanding, books have a lot of people touch them. Writer, editors, friends, family, more editors, publishers, advanced readers, etc. So many people, so how do all of these people not realize that there is a sentence that says, "and despite her flowning face..." WHAT. THAT'S NOT EVEN A WORD. YOU HAVE ONE JOB. How are typos even a thing with all of those people reading it? ONE JOB. 

2. Over Description of Outfits

One of the downsides to my willingness to read whatever is put in front of me is that I read some terrible writing. I usually enjoy the story despite said awfulness, but there is one thing I can't stand. I have come to realize that there is a hallmark of bad writing - describing what everyone is wearing. ALL THE TIME. 

I read a book that listed five different colors of pink nail polish. FIVE. "And her Ice Princess Pink nails...." and "she looked at her Fru Fru Magoo Pink nails..." What. Why. I was really starting to get into this ridiculous story and suddenly all I can think about is how often your main character is painting her nails. 

3. Literally

"He was so angry that his eyes were literally on fire." SOMEONE HELP THE DYING MAN! THAT SOUNDS TERRIBLE!! Unless you are Rob Lowe on Parks and Rec, and deliver this line with absolute sincerity, do not use this word. Just don't risk it. It literally always goes wrong.  

4. Decimate

This one irritates me so much because it's been misused to the point that the definition of the word has changed. Decimate means destroy one in ten. Writers LOVE this word. "The war decimated the population.." I mean, 10% loss isn't great, BUT IT'S NOT WHAT YOU MEAN. Devastated. Destroyed. Annihilated. All lovely options. 

5. Hair color

I finally read Gone Girl the other day, and it was really good! BUT as a girl who has dyed my hair a gross amount of times, I had one major pet peeve. The main character dyes her own hair brown (fine, that's a thing) but then dyes her hair right back to blonde. Nope. No no no. Not a thing. Dying brown dyed hair with blonde dye from a box has two outcomes - horrifying or blood curdling. Neon orange. Or green. 

Am I nit picking? Yes. Would her green hair have ruined her whole story? YES. 

What's your biggest pet peeve in reading?

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RAR!! I'm Angry Like a Dinosaur Stuck in a Party Hat

When I write, I do it to help my own process and to entertain, because making people laugh is pretty much the best thing in the whole world.

Today, I don't feel like being funny. You know that feeling you get when your soul feels like it is physically on fire because you are so aggrieved and/or hurt and/or stabby? I have that in spades today. I could give you an outline of all my internal organs because my feelings are so visceral.

As I told Princess Consuela, "I have rage in my soul," and she suggested we name our band that. T-shirts are in the works.

Typically, I would not deal with this online for all the world to see, because it's not nearly as fun to read about gross feelings as it is embarrassing stories. However, the whole point of all this is that I am tired of keeping silent.

I wrote a while back about the idea of shame and how damaging it is (if I remember to, I'll put a link in the comments, but I probably won't). Being a people pleaser, with a very external locus of control, I'm often impacted by shame, real and/or perceived, so it shouldn't be a surprise that I have more to say on the subject.

I'm frequently shamed for who I am. Let's look at the facts - I'm fat, I don't put effort in to my appearance often, I'm loud and opinionated, I'm emotional, I often take up more space than allotted, I wear a sock monkey hat on a regular bases, and the list goes one. I am not dainty, I am not put together, I am not demure, I am not traditionally attractive, I rarely say the right thing, and, boy howdy, does that piss society off.    

"But Anna, we live in a society that is liberated and women are free to be what they want and look how they want. Society is so much more progressive now, you're behind the times, this isn't the 1950s!"

BULL SHIT.

Well, not totally. You are correct it is not the 1950s, I stand corrected. But as to the rest, BULL SHIT.

I am shamed by friends and strangers alike. People often think I can't hear them in places like the grocery store. Friends think what they say doesn't get back to me. A look communicates so loudly you might as well yell.

It's exhausting and makes me heart sick.

And I'm sick of it. For myself and for others like me who aren't even in the same room as society's mold. It's total crap. If your perfect life is so unsettled by who I am that you have to communicate it directly or indirectly, then go away. I'm tired of being the one running. I'm tired of pretending I can't hear or see. And I bet others are too.

I am awesome. I'm gut-laughingly funny, I'm bright, I love fiercely, I have eyebrows to die for, and skin so great people want to make me into a trendy vest.

I am also deeply loved. I have people who are so affirming in my life, it's almost aggressive. But the reason I can't stay silent anymore? Because the negativity people who don't fit in face is so loud, it is so damn hard to hear the positive.

Shaming people doesn't just effect the people who are the direct recipients, but their loved ones. My husband has to deal with the me rejecting compliments about my body because I often hear things like, "oh wow, are you sure you want to take a picture next to her?"

So stop. Just stop. Leave us alone. Leave alone people who are overweight or have bad skin. The people who are socially awkward. The people who love Pokemon way past the appropriate age. Shame is so damaging, and whatever the goal is, it is not achieving any positive outcome. You telling me I'm fat isn't going to  magically inspire me to lose weight.

And you. Yes, you. The person who understands what it is like to hate parts of yourself because society says you should. STOP IT. You are so wonderful. I would much rather hear about your weird obsession with comic books than about the newest trick for applying eyeliner. Unless that's truly your thing, then I want to hear about. Embrace your quirks, your looks, your attitude. You are an inspiration, deal with it.      

Being shamed is awful. But the worst is when it translates into shaming yourself. I've been letting myself be eaten up by shame the last few weeks, for various reasons from various sources. And the tragedy is, it's my fault for letting them win.

So no more. I'm delightful. If that bothers you, I don't care. If it inspires you, wonderful. And if you ever need someone to speak louder than all the shaming bull shit in society, I'm  your girl.

A Tale of Two Screwdrivers

The other evening I had an Ordeal. Emphasis on the capital O.

It was a Thursday and I was in a rush trying to get ready between work and my husband's Christmas party. It's that harried process of transforming from a gremlin to Cinderella in under an hour.

As most women do, I have a very specific order of getting ready. Shower, half my make-up, hair, the rest of my make-up, get dressed. All without the help of musical mice. Darn the luck.

The first half of my make-up involves doing all of my eyes and then putting on my concealer like war paint. I leave it this way so it can dry a little while I'm doing my hair.

I was at this point in the process when I turned on my hair dryer, and all my lights when out.

Well. Crap.

I hobbled around in the dark, found a flashlight, and grabbed the first pair of shoes I stumbled across (they happened to be high heels). I teetered outside, checked the fuse box and was perplexed to find all the switches in the right place. That is the extent of my electrical knowledge.

A series of frustrating calls followed, one to my friend who is an electrician who helped me figure out that I had a bad breaker that needed replacing. Between his pep talk and the magic of Youtube I felt empowered to fix the problem myself.

At this point I had managed to find a pair of pajama pants, a neon yellow sports bra, and a sparkly tank top to complete my outfit of high heels and concealer warpaint (since I decided that attempting to do this outside at night in a towel was not my best plan).

I'm standing in the rocks, looking good, with a flashlight in my armpit and two screwdrivers in my hands and I successfully wiggle the old breaker out (the plan was to take it to Ace to get the right replacement).

"I got you, you wee little beastie! Success! Huh. How am I going to get my car out of the garage without the power on?"*

* I'm very external in my interactions with life. Exhibit A: The look my dog gave me as I was yelling at the TV (on an unrelated night)... this is what dog shaming actually looks like.

Anyway, there I stand wondering if I can turn my power back on without becoming an episode of CSI and decide to call my friend back instead of guessing.

I'm pivoting, arm pinned to side holding the flashlight, trying to juggle my screwdrivers, and I knock my phone to the ground (no pockets in my pajama pants so it was sitting on my meter).

Balls.

I rearrange all my accessories and pick up my phone. I didn't just drop and crack it, as is prone to happen in the smart phone day and age, I apparently dropped it into Mount Doom inadvertently. The screen was splintered into roughly a bajillion pieces. The parts of the screen I could see were green and black and pulsing.

BALLS.

I now have no phone, no power, and no way to get my car out.

I admit defeat. I toddle to my neighbors house, crying because that's what I do, and ask to use her phone. I call my husband and he zips home to save me, Christmas party being one of the many casualties of the evening.

We go to Verizon, cry (me), get new phone, we go to ace, cry (still me), get a new breaker, and go home.

John looks at me and says he'll finish fixing the breaker.

Like hell. Move over buddy. This is my epic battle, I shall not be defeated.

We go back to the breaker, this time he holds the flashlight (that's a game changer), I wiggle it back in, connect all the dillywops, flip all the little a-hole switches, and step back.

Deep breath. Walk around the house.

Angels start singing, because I'll be darned, my bedroom light is on.

I fling my arms wide and crow (I get you Peter Pan, crowing is an appropriate expression of joy).

"I DID IT! LOOK!! I DID IT!! AAAHHHHHHHHHOOOOOOOOO!!!" Double fist pump. Happy butt wiggle. Eighties side jump.

John looks at me and says, "Very nice. I have to pee." Man of few words. I respect that, it takes a lot of patience to be married to me. It did not slow down my front yard victory boogying.

RARRRRRRR. I AM WOMAN HEAR ME ROAR. I CAN DO ALL THE THINGS.

Forget being a counselor, I'm going to be an electrician.  

Anna Is Unimpressed

Today is a black letter day. I got a B on a major project.

Now, if you know me, you know I HATE getting anything but a solid A. It fills me with angst.

Especially when I have poured my soul in to a project, for an elective class, and felt like I rocked it. I mean really. It felt like my crowning achievement in graduate school, AND I GOT A B. 

WHAT. THE. CRAP.  

Frequently, when I'm unimpressed I text my friend " -_____________________-" - this is my unimpressed whale face. As I was talking to her this afternoon, I realized I frequently make this face internally. Like daily. 

Some examples just from this week. It's Tuesday.

Example A: My cube mate, Thistle (you may remember her - she wants to make me into a skin coat), listens to her radio at an unfriendly level. And she likes to whistle along. Loudly (my boss has IMed me from across the room to ask if that is really Thistle whistling that she can hear. It is. It always is). Especially to Adele. I'll set fire to your rain. 

Example B: I got half way to my internship yesterday when I realized I wasn't wearing shoes. I wish I could say I was shocked and embarrassed. I wasn't. This is a frequent occurrence. I was irritated I had to drive home to get some, but alas, it would not be incredibly inspiring to walk in for counseling just to see your counselor sitting there with no shoes. I have a bright future.

Example C: I had to get a flu shot on Sunday so I can work at a hospital. Demanding jerks, it's like they care about their patients or something. The guy who was helping me was slow. So slow. Painfully, want to shake him violently, slow. Thirty minutes after I got to the pharmacy (I was helped right away), THIRTY MINUTES, I sat down to get my shot. Considering the standard Mr. Slowpoke had set I figured it would take him another fifteen to actually give me the shot. I was rolling my sleeve up, turning to ask him some inane question to prolong the exhausting small talk, and BAM he ninja chopped me in the shoulder with the shot. All the blood wooshed into my ears and I toppled over. Really, now is the appropriate time to morph in to Sonic?  

   

Basically what I have realized today is that my internal expressions are made up of memes. Sigh. 

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