Exhibit Q: Unbelievable Social Awkwardness

I recently attended a high school reunion. I arrived late. Looking around the room at a hundred or so of my former classmates trying to figure out where to sit, I felt like the new kid in the cafeteria all over again. Insecurities I hadn’t felt in 20 years came rushing back. I am the most extroverted in my introvert family but that’s not saying much; I struggle with small talk and crowds make me anxious.

It’s hard to explain to anyone who isn’t an introvert or who doesn’t have social anxiety what this is like. But I will try.  I have to put in a sincere effort to make small talk not awkward. Partly this is because I am blunt. Partly because beyond exchanging pleasantries and talking about the weather I can never think of what to say that won’t be too personal. I also don’t want to be rude. But I most likely don’t care about who did your Botox. Small talk is, by its very nature, superficial and dull. And when things get deeper, introverts get uncomfortable. And when we get nervous we say/do weird things to distract you or get out of the conversation.  Weird things like:

“I can fit a whole orange in my mouth.” -me, on a date

Suplex someone -Beadle

“Excuse me, I need to go see if the drinking fountain works.” –me

Play nearby instrument loudly to encourage conversation -Sneet

Burst into spontaneous song. – Nana

Maintain eye contact while picking nose –Pooker

“Excuse me, I need to go feces” –I can’t source this, because I will be murdered, but it happened.

“Do you watch Stargate?” -Sneet

Pass out –Gummy

“Would you like to look at my anime sketches?”-OR Tire

So, if I saw you at the reunion and we had a normal conversation that didn’t end in me putting an orange in my mouth, I really enjoyed talking to you, although I was probably nervous the whole time. My father, alone, does not feel awkward making conversation. His particular skill is making everyone else feel awkward.

Don’t get me wrong, introverts like having friends. It’s just harder for us to let our walls down. It’s the making friends that is hard.

Things we have done to get out of public speaking:

Sprayed self with pepper spray immediately before dissertation. –my mom

Yelled “I hate you!” at husband, hoping to start a fight and miss event –me

             When asked, replied "I'd rather drive a toothpick under my nails" -me

             Faked injury or illness -everyone

My parents were also too nervous to yell “Woo hoo! Go Weed!” at my graduation, so they just clapped extra loud.

We also can be alone and not feel lonely. It’s some of my favorite time.

Being an introvert alone isn’t enough to make you weird.  But it sure doesn’t hurt.

 

Exhibit P: The Make-up Conundrum

My father was always very vocal about his disapproval of makeup.  If he caught you putting some on he would casually ask if that much “war paint” was necessary for going to school.  I would give him a world class eye roll.  If you don’t have a teenage daughter, you might not ever have experienced this.  Here is gif to demonstrate.

  In my mind I always imagined a horde of done up women, armed to the teeth with cosmetics going out to conquer the world of men.  Now I see that this isn’t far from the truth, sadly the standards of beauty, especially for women are set so impossibly high that we all fall short of the mark.  But if you don’t at least try to look that way, most people dismiss you as uninteresting and unimportant.  As if high heels (another of my father’s peeves, medieval torture devices, he dubbed them) and red lips have anything to do intellect and ability.  (Putting my soapbox away)

As a result, I never used cosmetics, although I desperately wanted to.  My mother only wore makeup to church and sometimes when she and dad went out to dinner.  He insists he prefers her sans embellishment.  Maybe he does.  But I grew up believing most men thought only silly girls wore makeup.  That men in general preferred a more natural look.  Aside from Nick Offerman, my father and a few other select males, I don’t feel like this is typical. 

When I was sixteen I was invited to a Mary Kay makeover party.  I was thrilled.  Finally someone to teach me this sacred skill!  And they would do it for free!!  The plump, cheerful makeup artist paid particular attention to me, when she was done she leaned back and surveyed her handiwork.

                “Oh, Weed,” she said, “you would be so beautiful if only you would wear makeup.”  This backhanded compliment was a sore spot for me for years.  I bit back a “you would be so skinny if only you would diet” retort that my sassy sixteen year old brain came up with on the spot.  And mentally complimented myself for my maturity and restraint.  I didn’t realize she was trying to sell me anything until I was handed an order form and brochure.  My heart sank.  $14 for mascara.  Clearly this was not going to be a repeat of my bubblegum experience.  I speechlessly considered the prices and quantity of necessary makeup to make me beautiful, which she had dutifully circled for me.  Then decided my father was right and I didn’t need it.  I went home and tearfully scrubbed the cosmetic masterpiece from my face. 

                By some miracle I never had a problem with acne.  My sisters weren’t so lucky.  Teenage acne hit them with a vengeance.  I like to think this was their punishment for being better than me in every other department.  My mother was no help, since she didn’t wear cover up or foundation ever.  So Gummy, Nana and Beadle were left to flounder unaided through the painful process of learning to apply makeup.  Often coming out too pale or too shiny.  I could share some pictures, but one of them would undoubtedly punch me in the ovaries for it.  My father insisted the best treatments were natural ones.  Like honey or baking soda paste.  Nothing makes you feel more beautiful than crusty baking soda face.

                It wasn’t until college that I began to dabble in the forbidden art form.  My sweet hairstylist friend convinced me that my blond eyelashes could use some mascara.  I felt like I was using robotic surgical instruments with no prior instruction.  I pinched my eyelid with a lash curler and that was almost the end of the experiment.  After 15 years, I’m still not sure I’m doing it right.  I now wear eye makeup.  Sometimes.  I lack complete confidence in my application technique.  Lipstick, however, is going way too far.  Lipstick makes me feel like a clown who is slowly suffocating on baby powder. 

                Although I don’t subscribe to my parent’s all makeup makes you look ridiculous theory, I have to admit to a little bit of pride when my daughter told me mascara feels like sticks glued to your eyelids and threw the container away, insisting she looks fine the way she is. 

Me, with and without makeup at 19.  Maybe my dad has a point. 

Exhibit O: Our Kitchen Appliances

                If you walked into the kitchen at our home, you would be astonished, yes astonished, at the assortment of kitchen appliances that adorn the counters.  They take up almost all the usable space.  Rendering the table the prep and serving area out of necessity.  What kind of appliances, you ask, considering yourself fairly well versed in kitchen paraphernalia.  Well, there is the normal stuff.  There is a stand mixer to the left of the sink, ancient and well used.  On the opposite side sits the blender, cozied up to the drying rack for dishes.  By the blender is a toaster and between the two is nestled a handheld blender.  But once you pass the toaster, you’ve hit the point of no return.  A two square foot space of counter is dedicated to the meat slicer.  For all those turkey breasts you’ve recently cured.  Next to the meat slicer is a deep fryer so old it has a fabric wrapped cord and unless it is properly coddled it will ignite your kitchen in an oil-fueled fireball.  By the fryer is a bagel slicer and last in the row comes a toaster oven, for when your regular oven or toaster simply will not suffice. 

                Way back around by the stand mixer is a wheat grinder.  And sitting alone, next to the fridge that I melted trying to make popcorn, is a yogurt maker.  It would honestly remind you of a prep kitchen for a small cafeteria.  If it weren’t for the enormous toolbox and the disassembled 1990’s computer behind the table that sometimes get used for a chair.     

Exhibit N: Christmas

As I’m sure you can imagine, Christmas at our house was never what one would expect.  I’ll start with Santa.  I always knew Santa was made up.  Not because I’m a super genius who rapidly deduced that the story of Santa defied the laws of biology and physics.  Because my parents straight up told me.  Why?  Because, Santa brings lots of presents to good girls and boys, right?  Well, when you have next to nothing and Santa shows up with a few homemade candies and a dress your mom made for you, this creates some problems.  One, you think you haven’t been very good.  Two, your mom doesn’t get credit for all her hard work.  Three, you're basically putting on an elaborate deception for your kids.  My parent’s solution was to let each of us pretend to be Santa.  The year it was our turn, we got to shop with mom for each of our siblings.  Then, we stayed up all night Christmas Eve, making gooey, poorly wrapped caramels, wrapping presents and stuffing stockings.  At least one stocking per year was just a melted mess of caramel and fudge.  Our candy making skills needed some fine tuning.  Still, being Santa is one of my favorite childhood memories.



Pooker being Santa

                Next, I’ll discuss the weird gifts we give.  Typically we got one gift a year, from our parents, then we would make or buy one for each of the siblings (if purchased, more often than not, these came from quarter vending machines at the grocery store).  Let me start with where they purchased most of these gifts.  The pawn shop.  Gifts I have received from a pawn shop: a set of sterling silverware in a heart-shaped box (age 11), a ring, a VCR, an antique side table (age 8), a puzzle.  Some gifts my siblings received from a pawn shop: Pooker (tent), Nana (porcelain doll), Beadle (butterfly knife (age 12)) Sneet (TV) John (laptop).  Other gifts of note I have received: an atlas, a dictionary, homemade moccasins, homemade candles and a thesaurus.  Funniest gifts I have seen given: wax (to Pooker), crocheted boxer shorts (to Beadle’s boyfriend), shampoo (to my mom) a weed whacker (to Nana), leather working kit (to Nana) and a seed warmer (again, to Nana).  Our gifts are often, homemade, secondhand and more a necessity than luxury.  I would, however, be remiss if I didn’t mention the time I got something new.  When I was six, I desperately wanted a Cabbage Patch doll.  The whole world wanted one. My grammy tried to make me one, but it just wasn’t the same.  I couldn't ask for it because they were expensive.  I don't know how she did it, but my mom figured it out.  That year, she fought through the Christmas crowds and managed to snag one of the very last Cabbage Patch dolls.  She forked over $25 for it, which was more than she spent on all the other kid’s gifts combined.  I loved that doll. 

                How we wrap.  If our gifts were unusual, our wrapping was worse.  We were constantly trying to wrap our present in a manner that left the recipient puzzled as to what the contents were.  The pawn shop ring was stuck inside a fig newton and wrapped up.  I was led on a treasure hunt for the side table.  The thesaurus was placed inside a 3’x3’ box filled with packing peanuts.  Imagine my surprise.  The puzzle was in 23 separate layers of newspaper.  The weed whacker was meticulously wrapped in the exact shape of a weed whacker. 

                Our tree for many years was just a potted plant in the living room.  If we bought a tree, it was usually on the 23rd, because that's when they go on sale.  Sometimes we cut our own tree.  We usually were woefully bad at guessing the size that our living room could accommodate. 

                If you have ever had to do Christmas for 8 kids on less than $100, then you know what I am talking about.  But, let me be clear, I loved Christmas.  Despite all the lumpy packages under the tree, despite peeling caramel off my candy canes, despite the fact that nothing was new, bright or shiny.  What I remember most is sleeping under the Christmas tree, carefully crafting paper doll dresses for my sisters, playing games together, and singing together.  What I remember most is love.  And isn’t that what Christmas is all about? 



Nana with a homemade Christmas hat

Christmas.  I am the baby my mom's shirt is talking about.

Me being Santa