So, I left the house yesterday.
I almost didn’t. I actually wanted to back out right after I’d put my coat on, because I was feeling horribly dizzy. But I didn’t. Even though I’d just been woken up, thrown into the bath, and had only had, like, two sips of Coke.
We ended up at this restaurant somewhere in the 16th Street Mall. That’s…well, I don’t think most of my five readers know much about Denver, so it’s…I dunno. Not really a mall so much as this really weird place with ‘streets’ that only these magical [and free] hybrid bus things, rickshaw-things, and horse-drawn things [sub-tangent: some day, I’m totally going to ask one of those dudes if I can pet the horse, because some of them are, like, smallish Clydesdales or something, and I have this weird compulsion to pet identifiable breeds of things] are allowed. Also, there are buskers everywhere, and I, personally, find it hard to tell if some of them are just busking, or are legit crazy homeless people.
I’ve only been there a couple of times, though. Maybe spending a lot of time there develops your homeless-sense, so you can tell that, like, Mr. Sign Dancer is actually employed, and didn’t just murder seventeen buskers and the original sign-dancy-person.
Anyway…restaurant…mall…gathering. For a party that was previously delayed by snow. Short version: I survived, with only minor post-party anxiety issues [I ate, therefore I felt yarfy].
I even talked to people. I ended up sitting next to someone I’d never met, and he started a conversation with me because I pulled out my Nexus. I got to meet the Nexus 4, which is surprisingly light compared to Gremlin’s phone.
And yes, I’m that fucking person. Of course I am. I found some WiFi and was all set to slip away into a conversation with a friend on Facebook instead of interacting with people there. But no, I ended up talking a tiny bit of tech, bragging about my el-cheapo keyboard and my significantly less el-cheapo stylus. And I showed off a bit of what the 7 could do, in the sense that I showed what limited shit I do with it.
At one point, I ended up in a rather long discussion about Doctor Who [okay, I fucking started it. Of course I did. I was annoyed that I wasn’t at home, watching that shit right then and there, so I had to get my Who on somehow].
It was at this point that Gremlin asked me, “Having fun?”
And there’s no good way to answer that without offending absolutely everyone. It’s probably a good thing that I don’t give a fuck about offending people, isn’t it?
Not really, no. It wasn’t my definition of ‘fun’. And I don’t think that’s the anxiety speaking. I didn’t mind the conversation, and I didn’t even mind talking to someone whose name I will probably never remember. He was pretty okay, for a complete stranger.
But a loud bar where I doubt I could be heard most of the time? Interacting with people face to face? No. That’s not my scene.
My definition of fun is probably your definition of ‘fucking boring’.
Even without the urge to hide in a closet under a pile of blankets, or not get out of bed for a week straight, I’m a pretty solitary person. I’m a quiet person.
Like I said before, I’m that fucking person.
Looking for me at a party? I’ll make a stab at social interaction, and then you’ll probably find me off somewhere reading. Got a bookshelf? I’m on that fucker like a thoroughly confused Valkyrie. And I will probably declare it my personal space, and defend it like a thoroughly confused swarm of hornets that thinks it’s a Valkyrie. Or a wolverine.
Even if you don’t have something I want to read, I’ll have my own portable library. And I’ll probably isolate myself further with my iPod. And, occasionally, I’ll chat with someone on Facebook.
Because I’m just not that great in person. I spent a great deal of my school career learning how to be invisible, and it comes pretty easy now. It came pretty easy anyway, because I’m a naturally quiet person.
Which is why I’m not that great in person. There’s a lot I just don’t handle very well. When the fuck do I talk? When am I supposed to show interest? Am I showing too much interest? Do people actually think I want them to invite me along to do something? Is that creepy? What the fuck am I supposed to be doing?
That’s assuming I can even get a fucking word in, because I’m also that person: the one everyone talks over. I’m very easy to talk over, and I don’t talk much anyway [because when the fuck am I supposed to?].
I do much better online. Not only can I get something out without someone interrupting and derailing me, but the actual thoughts are much easier to convey, because…my mouth can’t keep up with my brain.
I have this problem where I say ‘um’ a lot. It usually happens because I’m part-way through a sentence, and my brain is already an entire fucking paragraph ahead. My fingers do not have this problem. Obviously.
So, that’d be problem one. Yeah, I like talking about Doctor Who, but I’d rather do it in a place where I can get through the fucking novella streaming through my head — get it down in a sort of edited version, since typing lets me do that without leaving a lot of dead air for someone else to pounce on.
And I haven’t really covered the ‘fucking boring’ thing yet, have I? Well, kinda, in the sense that ‘my idea of fun’ includes ‘my idea of a good book’. But, out-and-about fun? Watching that lunar eclipse through my telescope for the first time was fun. Freezing-my-ass-off, wrapped-in-a-blanket-outside fun, but, still, kinda neat. Going to a museum is fun. Watching a movie with a few people is fun. Playing a videogame is fun.
Sitting down in a small group in a quiet place and having an entertaining conversation might be fun. It can be, but it’s kinda hard to do. I’d rather do that through some form of messenger.
I’m sure this is a problem, but I don’t think it’s a problem that can be fixed. And I’m pretty sure that, assuming everything else could be fixed, it’d be something that prevents me from ever being successful at much of anything. Even successful bloggers have social events.
With that depressing thought…I think I’m done.