February 10

Humiliation happens to everyone, right? It happens more frequently and more severely to the lonely. Trust me.

I was a nanny when I lived in Norristown, and even though the agency I went through had a nanny connection program, I was too shy and going through too deep of a depression to have the energy to partake in something that potentially could’ve rescued me from a lot of grief. I had no friends. I had my roommate and her boyfriend to hang out with, but being their third wheel was the equivalency of having the regret of who I left behind slap me in the face over and over and over and over again. I loved their company, don’t get me wrong, but it was painful. I know how self-centered that sounds, and I really tried to not allow my own self-pity to interfere with my friendship, but it did. However, the self-loathing and pity eventually got to me, and drove me to pep talk myself into figuring out how to socialize and put myself out there. This, is where I always fail. My anxiety keeps me from gracefulness, and I’m unable to cope with my awkwardness. And honestly, Reader? I just really, really hate small talk and the obligation of trying to be “normal”. I can’t communicate on a normal level. I sort of have a level all to myself…

So. One night while barbequing for myself, experimenting with ingredients (like Malibu rum), the boys upstairs had come out onto their porch and began raving about the smell rising up through the slats of their patio. Feeling excited to be getting attention for something I was doing well (cooking), I engaged. They, not me, insisted that I bring them what I was cooking because it smelled so amazing. They invited me up. So. I cooked everything, was too excited to eat for myself, wrapped up the chicken and knocked on their door. They welcomed me in, and I was feeling proud of myself for talking down my anxiety and actually going for it (it, being social interaction with my own species). I came in, said my hellos, put the chicken on the counter and opened it up and told them to dig in. They all groaned with, “Aw, we just ate. So sorry. ‘Can’t eat it right now.”
I didn’t know how to respond to this. I can be fragile when it comes to putting myself out there, so this shook me up. (Pathetic is a word I use very often for a reason.) I misunderstood, apparently, when they said to bring up the food. Why did they just eat if they knew I was bringing food? I felt like the size of a pea. I wanted to run for that hole… But I hung tough, and shook it off. This was when I smoked all of racist’s artsy wannabe’s cigarettes while I sat there like an idiot and watched them play poker.

It was some time after this that we went to that bar together. I was figuring by this time I was becoming chmmy with them, so I was feeling more confident and wanted and socialized. They ended up eating my Malibu chicken on a later day and raved about it, another ego booster that made me feel welcomed. So, I had thought to myself, why not continue to bond with food? Being Sicilian, food is how we bond, so what the hell… Why not? I made up a whole dish of chicken catatora, my most perfected recipe, stuck it in the fridge and decided to be creative about how I was going to offer it to them. I had these excellent postcards with Wonder Woman comics on the fronts, so I took one that was especially funny (or so, I thought), and wrote on the back of it something to the effect of: “I have a chicken casserole for you guys. Come and knock if you want it! From: the goddess below”. I stuck it in their mail slot, and waited.
Nothing, for two days. I passed them on the sidewalk and nothing more was said than an awkward, “hey”. I was feeling the size of a pea again, but told myself, “Don’t be made out of glass. Get over it.”
Four days passed. The chicken had to get eaten soon, and it was way too much for me to eat it by myself. So late one Saturday night I opened the fridge, stared at my tin foiled casserole dish and said to myself, “Get some courage. Just knock on the door and give it to them.” So, I did.
I knocked. I could hear them talking and laughing. Music was playing? No. Maybe they couldn’t hear my knock…. I knocked again. Nothing. I stood there with my stupid casserole dish weighing on my arm, and knocked again. I was afraid to turn away and afraid to stand there all at the same time. I had this excruciating foreboding, all of my senses telling me, “They ignored you after the postcard…they’re ignoring you now…they want you to leave them alone….you’re going to make an idiot of yourself….”

The door finally opened, and there was short blonde meat head acting (a really bad actor) surprised to see me (I could tell they were ignoring my knocks). In a very awkward small voice I explained that I had made a chicken catatora for them and wanted to bring it over. He acted (again, bad acting) surprised by this as well. He then very reluctantly asked me up. I didn’t want to go up. I could already feel the potent rejection. Maybe it was my own insecurities and paranoia (a grand possibility), but I was certain that at this point I was no longer wanted in their little boy club. Maybe they realized I wasn’t the party girl who puts out like they were hoping. Either way, I felt stupid going up into the apartment, but I did.

It was awkward. I was feeling intrusive, my worst handicap in all of my relationships, casual or not. I am petrified of being in people’s way. I am petrified of being unwanted. I lasted maybe an hour of the awkwardness when meat-head asked me if I wanted to shower with him. I had the sneaking suspicion he was purposely trying to offend me to get me to leave. Either way, even if he wasn’t, it was an asshole of a move. I took the hint.

I came to the conclusion later on that I was being played. My extremely beautiful and socially graceful roommate often came up in their conversations, asking me how serious her boyfriend was. Defending their relationship profusely, I seemed to have let the boys down. They had helped her carry in her groceries, once, and that alone didn’t faze me until the day came when I came back from a huge grocery/errand run with twenty bags of stuff. While they played whiffle ball in the courtyard, I made trip after trip back and forth from my Jeep to the apartment with not any three of them offering to help. Instead they jibed and teased about how many bags I had. I had to walk past them, red in the face, for a total of twelve trips on the sidewalk, forcing them to pause their pitch every time I walked past the back of the batter. Humiliation.

I failed. I’m not even sure if I read all their signals right, but even if I didn’t, it only goes to show how difficult it is for me to figure out how to fit myself in without making an ass of myself. Were they worth it? Hell no. I know that. Paranoid or not, there were other signs, signals; snide, blatant remarks; moments of rudeness that I’m not going to go on and on about to bore you with that supports the fact that I was trying way too hard to fit myself in to a group of assholes just so I could feel like I belonged to any group at all.

Months went by. A year, maybe. I had barely seen the boys within that time when before I knew it they were packing up and moving out. Within that time, I had successfully been putting myself back together. I had lost those twenty pounds, and my hair was growing in cute. I had finally got back on my feet financially, and I was able to afford a nice new wardrobe that boosted my confidence significantly. I was dressed up on this particular day, karma paying me a little somethin’ somethin’, wearing a top I felt pretty good in when I heard a knock on my door. I opened it to find those two blondies telling me they were here to say good-bye. Tall blonde guy that I used to gawk at? Looked me up and down, and I swear on all that is sacred to me I could read a blush and a small flicker of desire on his face. Meat head was offering his good-byes, and tall blonde guy bent down to hug me goodbye. I got to hug tall blonde guy. Or rather, he got to hug me. I was pretty sure they were looking to say goodbye to my roommate more than me, but the fact that I was all they had to see them off was a little rewarding. Adios, First Blonde Crush Ever! I think his name was Doug.