News: First person ever to ruminate over their own awkward social behavior

In today's news, an unprecedented occurrence has taken place: a woman in her 30's left a social event, hung her head and physically cringed at the newly formed memory of being awkward 10 minutes prior to exiting the building.

"I know I'm definitely special, in that I'm the first and only person to have been socially awkward and thought about it," Margaret Myers remarked. "No one has ever felt this way before me."

Our specialist, Tamara Ivar PhD weighed in, saying "Up until now, people had only cringed at their boomer parents making unsavory comments about whose lives do/don't matter, and who would make what great again. Never before had people actually reflected on their own social shortcomings and shuddered at the thought....until now."

Margaret Myers, first self-cringer ever, commented that "I don't know how often this will happen, but I certainly don't wish this upon anyone else, not even my parents who demand to see the manager at Walmart when the "sales clerk" they are barking orders at insists that he doesn't work there."

pickles

As I spotted the jar of chili cornichon pickles at the supermarket, I let out a gasp and my heart began to race. Pickles...with chili!

After getting home, I snatched the pickle jar out its prison and carelessly tossed the grocery bag, still filled with less desirable contents, aside. 

 

AT LAST! I thought, as I emphatically twisted the lid. The lid, however, would not give. I put my whole body into it, and still, it would not give. I shouted at and berated the jar, and still it would not give. I bargained with the jar, offering jewels and fortunes beyond its wildest dreams, and still it would not give. I weakly reasoned with the jar, but still, it would not give. 

 

I threw my head back and screamed "PICKLEEEEEESSSSS!!! I JUST WANT PICKLES!!!!" 

 

At last, with weakened knuckles and aching palms, I admitted defeat and slowly put the jar down, stifling a silent wish that a miracle would be bestowed upon this jar during its journey down to the countertop. It was not. I gave the jar one last longing glace and walked away into the sunset.

bean bag

The monotony of post-Christmas winter is slow and grating.  I have spent odd moments of freedom sinking into an oversized bean bag, wishing it would swallow me whole, like a dead star with a kind-streak, wrapping me in microfiber as it gently encompasses and eventually crushes me with memory foam.  How cliche is it to wish to be smothered out of January-misery by a cushy black hole I think to myself.  

"I fucking love this bean bag," I tell my friends, and they nod and smile politely.   No, I mean it, I fucking love it.

The smugness of "We are the Champions"

Did the members of Queen know what the future held for their song "We are the Champions" when they wrote it?  Did they create the tune knowing it would be used by smug winners to gloat and exalt the glory of victory over the fallen egos of their failed competitors?  

Did they know that frat boys winning at beer pong would tone-deafedly belt the song in the faces of their temporary mortal enemies?  Could they have guessed that office workers would sing it following successful team building competitions, wagging their fingers emphatically while smirking smugly at their fellow accountants?  

Even I, who put on a false visage of "humble winner" after beating my friends at a party game, have a deep desire to sing the song accompanied by a cartoonish victory dance.  Thankfully, through some miracle of a force unknown preventing my unmaking, I am able to resist this craven temptation and merely smile innocently, shrugging it off as "just luck", all the while, in my head, gleefully belting out "We are the Champions!"

girlish and greying

My mug is the one with dried tan drips down the lip, and nutella fingerprints on the side. I can't drink my coffee fast enough, I can't even pause to wipe the chocolate spread off of my fingertips; I'm thoughtless and impulsive, driven by eagerness, not hunger. A fresh bite of chocolatey cream on the vehicle of my choice (usually rice crackers) is chased with burnt coffee to achieve a woman-child's idea of harmony: sweet, deep and bitter. Even those three words are giving it too much credit. 

 

Who eats chocolate for breakfast?

 

"Oh, but it's a nutspread, it's healthy."

 

I roll my eyes at my inner dialogue.  I can't even fool myself.

I go to work, I file my taxes, I keep a tightly controlled digital calendar, and yet I still feel entirely inadequate as an adult. Does this sensation ever go away, or will I be plagued with girlishness beyond the point when I've lost my teeth and can't climb stairs anymore? 

 

I giggle and make voices, I play video games and do little dances (sometimes at the same time), I even skip when the urge strikes. I'm slowly approaching middle-age, and I feel like Shirley Temple's curls: perky, elastic, giddily bobbing up and down, when everyone around me has settled into a tightly woven braid: joyless, stressed, and bound by their choices. 

 

I don't want to be a braid.

space, the final frontier

       What people don't tell you about larger living spaces is that you can go longer without cleaning and washing. That pile of laundry that used to sit so prominently in your eyeline in a small apartment, is swallowed and made unnoticeable by the echoing empty space in quarters twice the size. You let it grow to an unreasonable size because it becomes an invisible fixture lining a barren wall. A bursting stack of papers on a small desk becomes a needle in a haystack on a two-meter desk. A dish in a large country-style sink is hardly noticeable, compared to a small, shallow sink that thrusts it's contents out like the chest of a proud strutting pigeon that has mistaken itself for a peacock. Big spaces swallow the mess and hide the dirt. How often does one sweep in such a place? Twice per week? Once a decade? Never? I step on glass and can't even pinpoint where it came from, let alone when it came from.

dramatic dry-heaving

 The day was winding down, and I was ready to sink into the land of sofatuation and temporarily become a vegetable on my favorite piece of furniture. My mother was visiting, and we picked out a movie I thought we’d all like. It became clear that my choice of thriller was not well-suited to my mother’s jumpy nature, as she spent the following two hours yelping like a surprised cocker-spaniel and wailing “Ow weiah! I can’t watch!” while covering her eyes. “Tell me what’s happening!”

“Sure,” I said as I begun to narrate, “The man exits the building and sees a body, still and bloodied, black and wet, glistening in the moonlight.” I was enjoying my dramatic narration so much, that I was nearly disappointed when she started watching again.

In one scene, where a hospital floor full of corpses was discovered, she screamed, and immediately made a sound like she was going to vomit. “I can’t look!” she cried between puking sounds. “What are you making me watch! Why did you do this to me?” she lamented.

Carl and I traded knowing glances and shrugged. We were familiar with these theatrics, and knew it was best not to feed into them.

“If you have to vomit, you should probably go the bathroom” I said casually, wondering when her show of disapproval would end.

“Huuuuuugh!” she continued as she paced to and fro within the living room, intermittently pausing to dramatically dry heave.

About five minutes of heaving with no signs of actual vomit, she settled back onto the sofa and we finished the movie.