I wrote this over two years ago - I found it just recently.
Life is not easy for a shy person. Granted, it isn’t easy even for the most confident and most brazen of people, but the shrinking introvert on the whole has a worse time. At least the brazen person doesn’t shudder when asked to attend a party or a social function; however, any function which involves plenty of strangers is anathema to the sensitive plant.
I’m a sensitive plant myself. I like nothing better to do on a Saturday or Sunday evening than curl up with a nice book or watch an old movie on the TV. Anything by way of parties or social-dos I avoid as much as possible and it’s only the most rigorous pleading that can get me to attend them.
However, that doesn’t mean I like being an introvert. Being thoughtful and loving to read is all fine, but sometimes I wish I’m able to put all that information into practical use, like chatting blithely when I am forced to attend some event or another. On such occasions, when I’m standing uncomfortably in a corner, nervously adjusting my dress or my hair, I wish I had that gift of sparkling and scintillating conversation all heroines seem to have in books. You can’t read the amazingly brilliant dialogues that take place between the hero and heroine without wishing that you too had at least partly such an ability.
At least being shy at a party full of strangers is better than being in a company of friends. With strangers I can shrink into a corner and get sucked into my own daydream, without a fear of being accosted by an acquaintance and asked to come and dance, or take part in some equally soul-searing experience.
But with pals it’s different. This isn’t close friends I’m talking about. With close friends even the most horrid of such outings become partly bearable. I’m talking about those people whom I know with just the right degree of intimacy for them to be called chums, but we have nothing in common to supply conversation for more than a desultory chat.
With such people, attending functions can be a downright nightmare. Most often than not, I’m wedged in the middle of an uncomfortable group, or even worse, hanging on the edge unnoticed and unattended to, not having a single comment worth making and feeling absolutely wretched, while all around me are laughing and chatting gaily and apparently having the time of their lives. In such cases the sum total of my conversation comes to many liberal ‘what did she say’s sprinkled about and an occasional inspired ‘this dish is good, don’t you think?’ thrown in for good measure.
It’s infinitely galling for an intelligent girl to find herself in such a position, yet all my efforts to change it come to naught. If I manage to actually contribute something worth listening to during a conversation, I’m usually so taken up by surprise that I lose track of all conversation after that. And then I’m back to square one.
At least if my friends, knowing my nature, leave me alone kindly, it wouldn’t be half as bad. But they ignore me for most of the time and then suddenly one of them realizes I’m part of their group. Immediately they all look pityingly at poor little me and talk very kindly, no doubt feeling very complacent all the time and mentally giving themselves a pat on their backs for noticing and condescending to speak to me. At such times, it’s hard not to feel annoyed, but then I remember they’re really well-meaning and I’ve brought it on myself anyway and I give a weak smile, no doubt adding to their self-satisfaction.
I also hate photographs. Even in a simple get-together my friends feel the need to bring all the expensive cameras (not counting the built-in ones in their cell phones) while I cower and hope no one will ask me to pose. The ‘say cheese!’ photos really make me shrivel up. There’s something about the lens of a camera that intimidates me. No wonder, since I see a gargoyle in spectacles every time I look at a picture of myself. Not something anyone would want to last for ages.
So it is pretty obvious that every time I’m invited on an outing with my ‘chums’ I’m in for a terrible time. There’s no silver lining during such events. The only time I get some respite is if someone even shyer than me turns me. That gives me some confidence. I feel sorry for her of course, but I’d rather it was her than me.
You might wonder why I even go out if it offers nothing but horrible feelings. I have no idea myself. The answer is partly I don’t know how to refuse gracefully yet convincingly. There is a limit to the excuses I can think up, and my friends are notoriously slow in taking up a hint. As far as I know, my presence at an event is of no joy either to myself or to any of the others, yet when I make some excuse for not coming they behave as though I’ve offered the greatest disappointment ever in their life.
The second reason is there is a kind of masochistic pleasure in going. I dress up, wear my make-up and set off quite jauntily for my evening of gloom. Sometimes, if I’m lucky, it’s even half-way bearable. I suppose if someone goes on the rack enough times, he might get used to it. It will be a pain, of course, and he can think of a thousand things he’d rather be doing, but he’d probably say the pain wasn’t so much as it was the first time. Well, I guess I’d say the same thing.
Let me just add in conclusion that if you’re one of those brazen ones I mentioned in the beginning, then you have all my respect (and fervent admiration) and if you’re in the same boat as me, well, all the best!
