Me? Shy? Why, I . . .

For a brief, dark moment following two conversations I’d had over this past week, I thought that I might have to rethink my entire idea of myself, as well as my childhood, because, apparently, my own personal narrative was entirely wrong. Or so I’d been informed. Seriously, was it possible that I just did not know myself? At all? Had I been asleep? Had I just been watching the wrong movie this entire time? Was this Vanilla Sky 2 – American version, Cruz’s revenge? (Would I find the answer in Scientology?)

Also, if I didn’t know myself very well, and other people knew me better than I knew myself, was there someone out there whom I knew better than they knew themselves? Were there several someones? Was there a whole army of someones out there just waiting for me to explain themselves to themselves? And how much money do you think they would pay me to do that for them?

Certain facts I hold to be true and self-evident about me (or, Liz’s Bill of Rights):
1. I am extremely shy.
1a. I was even shyer as a kid.
2. I have to force myself to be social.
2a. I don’t really like people very much.
3. I have low self-esteem.
4. Doesn’t mean I don’t know that I’m smarter than the rest of you. Because I am. See point 2a.
5. I will regret typing that.
6. I cry way too much.
7. People seem to like my ass.
8. I am a bad actress.

I remember being terrified of other people as a child the way some kids are scared of bugs or dirt or big dogs. I remember, when I was a very young child, having to warm up to my teacher each day in school, not talking to her when I first came to class because, you know, she might bite. I was that kid who stared at you mutely when you asked her a question - the one you figured would probably be blowing shit up in about twenty years. I’d talk to my teacher more and more as the day went on, only to have to start over again the next day. I remember doing this to my grandparents, who lived right downstairs, and my aunts, who lived right upstairs, and my dad, who had to go away for weekends to work and is my dad. I remember doing this to my best friend each time we went to her house. I remember sitting quietly at family parties, not talking to anyone, feeling awkward as hell and wanting to hide. Also, not knowing what awkward meant.

And yet, was it possible that I made this all up?

Maybe I was a gregarious child. Maybe I was a social butterfly, the belle of the ball. I mean, I’ve been hit in the head a few times. It’s possible that I was completely full of shit.

I do know that, right now, I don’t like talking to the neighbors, I don’t like asking strangers for help, and that if you leave me to my own devices for a couple of days, I will avoid all contact with other human beings, if at all possible. I don’t even like asking people I do know for help, come to think of it. What if they turned me down? How would I ever survive?

I am scared to walk into new classrooms. I hate calling people I don’t know very well on the phone. I practically hyperventilate when someone I don’t talk with on a regular basis calls me. Hell, I could probably use some tranquilizers, and I could easily be the before in those squeamish commercials for social anxiety meds. Forget the fact that I used to call people and ask them for money – as my job. That was just a testament to the sheer fact of my will, as well as the sheer fact of my broke-ass-ness. I can force myself to interact with people, it’s just that the small problem of me really not wanting to do so must shine through, since I know that I am not a good actress. In reality, I don’t even like emailing new people. Which is why those who are the lucky recipients of rambling, incoherent emails get so many of them from me. Because I should probably be sending them to other people. Thanks for being my surrogates! Woohoo! Go you guys!

The only place I really talked a lot, and freely, was in school, and then only directly to the teachers, and only once I had gotten a little older. Never to the other students in class, because if I looked directly at them, I might wither away and die. But I had no problem talking to teachers - see point 4 - clearly, I had the right answers. And clearly, everyone would benefit from – nay, couldn’t live without – the pearls of shiny, pearly, pearlescent wisdom positively dripping from each and every one of my comments. I couldn’t deprive the people of that, oh, no. But outside of class, I went back to being the school hermit.

And then, well - or so I thought.

I had a conversation with a friend of mine while at a birthday party. I mentioned that I used to be very shy as a kid, and was still kind of shy. She reacted with surprise. I repeated my assertion. She pointed out that I didn’t seem very shy. Then we laughed and pointed at people. At least, I think that’s how the conversation went. There was a touch of alcohol involved.

My thinking, when I again capable of thought, was that I’ve only known this friend for about eight or nine months. I’ve lived six of those months in Boston. She does not live in Boston. Ere go, she only observes me when I have driven down for a social engagement, and have been drinking my usual moderate amount. So! There you have it! Alcohol as social lubricant! I’d solved it!

I said as much to my cousin. If anyone would agree with me about how shy and ungainly I was as a child, it’d be a family member, right?

Hell no.

His response was that I was never shy, and also that I’d fought back (I used to win, too – I’m not the only one rewriting history, kiddo!)

For a brief moment, I thought my entire life was a lie.

But then, like wisdom from angels’ lips, the answer came to me:

I had based my personal denouement on two specific interactions, and there was, in fact, an entirely plausible conclusion to be drawn.

The answer to the great mystery of my life is that . . . to get me to be social, you can either feed me alcohol, or beat me. Sweet. I should have been born in a trailer. Not that there’s anything wrong with a trailer. I should look into trailer life, as apparently, I was built for it.

Oh yeah – you could also just be wrong. And then I’ll tell you. So, you know, that way’s cool, too, I guess. Whatever.



**UPDATE: My friend Stevie points out that by this metric I was also born to play rugby. I don't know how I missed that one. Also, I forgot about caffeine. Try to shut me up when I've had only half a bagel and four cups of coffee, I dare you.