Throughout my life, the only thing I’ve been able to do with
anything resembling consistency is embarrass myself. I essentially live in a
state of perpetual soul-wrenching shame of my past conduct.
As time moves on, I
repeatedly make the mistake of believing I’ve moved on from my awkward phase. I
think I’ve risen above it, and have become a perceptive, level-headed
individual who is incapable of such horrific social fuck-uppery ever again. “Holy
shit,” I think upon reflection of the past, “I used to be a social retard!
Thank GOD I’m not like that anymore and have become the beacon of social tact
that I am today.”
And yet, without fail, time moves on, that present becomes
the new, embarrassing past, and the cycle begins again. I delude myself into
thinking that I’ve changed in some fundamental way this time. I’ve grown,
gained new perspective, learned from experience. But no. It will happen again.
I WILL do something mortifying. It is written in my DNA. At the ripe age of 22,
I have finally come to grips with this fact.
However, at the age of 13, I had not yet amassed enough life
experience to have recognized this pattern. I did not yet realize that I was
doomed to fail, and had embarked on a mission to become a cool kid. This was
around the onset of puberty, and I had become obsessively self-conscious. I
made the mistake of trying to prevent further instances of social ineptitude by
carefully analyzing every decision and attempting to monitor my second-to-second
behavior.
The human brain is not capable of doing this. Something about the
process of analyzing and judging oneself in real-time is fundamentally flawed.
You become trapped in a feedback loop of self-consciousness and anxiety, and
you find that by some sick twist of irony, your efforts to appear normal produce
the exact opposite effect. You’re INTENSELY awkward. You’re visibly neurotic. Your
desire to be tactful is so overwhelming of your mental faculties that you begin
to spiral uncontrollably into a chaos of new and exotic embarrassing
situations, which only serves to amplify your crippling self-consciousness and propel
you ever-faster towards your next spectacular social failure.
The most painfully embarrassing event in my life occurred in
early middle school, when I was in the depths of a particularly debilitating awkward-feedback-death-spiral.
I had become so pointlessly ashamed of myself that I socially imploded. Out of
desperation to protect my fragile ego, I had decided to just never ever let
myself do ANYTHING. I would not talk. I would not move unnecessarily. I would not
make eye contact. Only the biological processes necessary for cellular
respiration were tolerable. I had been doing a fairly good job at maintaining
this level of activity, when one of my very few friends mentioned the school
dance.
Dances were an entirely new thing to me. My understanding of
them was based solely on the Disney Channel, and, being incredibly naïve, I
assumed that the Disney Channel’s portrayal of school dances was completely 100%
accurate.
As fate would have it, my body was very busy puberty-ing at
the time. Very. Busy. The sheer magnitude of my puberty may have single-handedly
set off the puberties of every kid who touched a door handle after me. As a
result, I had abruptly decided a few weeks earlier that boys and their opinions
of me were now extremely fucking important.
I thought that if I could persuade
a boy to take interest in me, his approval would single-handedly negate all of
my insecurities and forever certify my every quality as acceptable and
officially ’not weird’. If I could occupy the attention of a member of the
opposite sex, it would mean that he hadn’t heard about how catastrophically embarrassing
I was. If he hadn’t heard about how catastrophically embarrassing I was, it
would mean that people weren’t discussing it. If people weren’t discussing it,
it would mean that they hadn’t actually ostracized me yet. They hadn’t noticed
any of the embarrassing stuff I’d already done. Which meant I still had a blank
slate. I would still have a shot at becoming accepted by humanity. My social
life was salvageable. Boys were the key to escaping the spiral. There was a way
out, and it was important. By god, was it so epically important.
The dance occupied my every thought for the next few days. I
indulged in extremely elaborate fantasies about a ‘secret admirer’ that would
eventually use the dance as an opportunity to approach me. First, I would find
an anonymous note in my locker from him. The note would say that he had been
admiring me from afar, but was too shy to say anything to me.
I wanted that god
damn note more than anything. Every time I made a trip to my locker, my heart
would race as I pictured opening it and finding the note. I came up with word-for-word possibilities of
what the note might say. I thought about how much fun I would have trying to
guess who had left it. I picked out random kids in my classes and wondered if
it would end up being them.
I thought about how the last in a series of
anonymous notes would instruct me to go to the dance, where we would meet, like
fated lovers.
Then, on the day of the dance, I would be so much hotter
than any other girl there. The school gym would somehow have transformed into a
royal ballroom, and there would totally be a chandelier. And then a slow song
would come on, and from the crowd would step the boy.
Everybody would see that
a real live actual male human had approached me, and they would all make a mental
note that I was not weird, as the boy would take me in his arms and slow dance.
Then a spotlight would totally fall on us, and everybody would form a circle
around us. It would be a magical circle of official social validation. I would
absorb the power of the magic circle and never be embarrassing again. I would
emerge from the dance like a butterfly from a cocoon, forever liberated from the
realm of social retardation, and would from then on be incapable of ever doing
anything embarrassing ever again. It was going to be awesome.
Time went on and I wasn’t getting a note from my secret
admirer. The date of the dance was getting closer. I reluctantly decided that I
had to go to the dance, even though my secret admirer had been too shy to leave
me a locker note. He was out there somewhere, thinking about the dance as well,
and working up the courage to finally confess his feelings.
I couldn’t deprive
him of that chance. I bought my ticket. My friend bought hers. It was
happening.
The day of the dance came. I spent hours trying to work up the
courage to dress in something eye-catching, but I settled eventually on an
oversized band shirt and baggy mom pants. My friend and I were two of the first few people
there. We stood there motionless in the center of the dance floor, completely
at a loss as to what was supposed to happen.
To avoid talking to any of the 6
other people there, we resigned ourselves to standing in the corner where the
free food and drinks were. That way we could drink soda constantly to look
busy.
As time passed, more people showed up. Some of the people
started dancing in closed-circle groups. I watched them, envious of their
ability to throw caution to the wind and dance in public. I wondered where my
secret admirer was, as I downed my 7th giant cup of mountain dew.
It
eventually became quite crowded. I started to feel safer. There were so many
people there dancing, I slowly grew more comfortable with the idea that I might
dance a little bit and nobody would notice it in a crowd this big. Nobody, that
is, except my secret admirer. If I appeared more comfortable, he might work up
the courage to finally approach me.
It escaped my notice that I had at this point
single-handedly consumed close to an entire liter of mountain dew. The sugar
and caffeine was accumulating in my tiny 6th grade body. Against my
better judgment, I put my cup down and started to bounce a little to the rhythm
of the music.
I was doing it! I was actually dancing at a dance, and
nothing terrible was happening! Nobody was making fun of me! Nobody was even
looking at me! I was encouraged. I started to dance more enthusiastically. I
did things with my arms. I did things with my legs. Still, nobody was laughing
at me.
I eventually built up the courage to turn away from my
friend and seek eye contact with people I didn’t know. I was totally being
social. I would meet so many people, and I was totally going to be popular
after this.
It occurred to me then that I might be some kind of dance prodigy. I
had never danced before, so how could I have known that it was my talent? Maybe
on top of meeting my secret admirer, I would discover my one true passion in
life. Dancing. Yes. My enthusiasm grew. I was going to be known as the best
dancer in the school. I just had to really try.
I moved around more dramatically. I thought about those
cheesy moments in Disney straight-to-TV movies where the underdog finally has
his moment in the sun and shows everybody how talented he is. That was me. This
was my moment. My enthusiasm rose exponentially, much in the way my blood sugar
was. I started to incorporate jumping kicks and punches that I’d learned in
suburb karate from a fat white guy. My god, I was awesome.
I decided to go and look for my friend. I found her on the
exact opposite side of the room. I wanted to share my newly-found confidence
with her. “WHY DON’T YOU DAAANCE?!” I screamed over the music as I flailed my
limbs. “YOU JUST GO LIKE THIS!” I told her, as I showed her what you go like.
She was too embarrassed to dance. Poor thing, I thought.
Maybe if I danced even harder, it’ll put her at ease. I started to involve
hand-stands. I jumped aggressively into my first hand-stand and successfully
balanced on my hands and got back on my feet. I was so super encouraged. From
that point on, I included an aggressive hand-stand roughly every 30 seconds.
A circle was forming around me. Yes! I thought. It was
working! The magical circle was happening! I thought of how amazing my dancing
must look in order for the circle to have formed.
In reality, of course, it was
a don’t-catch-the-weird circle. People were trying to get as far away from me
as humanly possible so that nobody would make the mistake of thinking they knew
me. I didn’t know that, though. In my
mind, I was beginning my transformation into a cool kid.
My one actual friend was the farthest-away
of them all.
Then, the most unexpected thing happened. During the apex of
my spinning-kicky, punchy, pelvis-rotaty dance revolution, some random boy came
up behind me and started doing that grind thing.
In reality, this was a joke. It was probably a super super
hilarious joke.
But in my mind’s eye, this boy was doing the grind thing on
me because he could no longer contain his overwhelming sexual desire for my
incredible skills. Oh wow, I thought. I am changing lives tonight. Different
boys did it. Two boys did it at once. I was on top of the fucking world. I had
done it. I was now cool and could never ever do anything embarrassing ever
again.
I became so ludicrously enthusiastic that I started jumping
into my handstands so hard that I would lose balance and fall all the way over
and land tail-bone first onto the ground. I did not become embarrassed. There
was enough caffeine in me to kill a small horse. There was no stopping me now.
Imagine what would happen to a chimpanzee if you gave it LSD
and cocaine. That was my dance. It became so intensely chaotic that I started
accidentally hitting people as they tried to get near me to mock me. I was too
into it to even stop and apologize to them. I even vigorously attempted to
break dance at one point. At long last, I finally stopped after several hours
when they finally turned the music off.
I was still out of breath by the time I got into my mom’s
car. I told her how incredibly amazing I had been and how everybody there had
been so jealous of me. I also told my little sister about it when I got home. She was super jealous and thought I was even cooler than she had thought I was before, which was already super cool. I didn’t even care that my secret admirer had been too
intimidated to approach me. I had finally come out of my shell and I felt
invincible.
The next day at school, some girl I kind of knew and her
group of friends came up to me during lunch and asked me to show them my moves.
I told them I needed music to get my jam on. I was thoroughly convinced that
they were genuinely my fans. I. had fans.
Later that day, it abruptly, finally clicked.
I momentarily considered the possibility that what I had done was not, in fact, awesome, and was actually the most catastrophically mortifying thing that could have possibly been done.
And
almost immediately I realized that yes. Yes it was.
And that’s why nobody is ever allowed to complain
to me about how awful middle school was for them.
(true photo documentation of me building up my courage)