You guys, sometimes I used to get terribly awkward. Anything beyond, “How do you do?”, and I would blush, break out in teeny beads of sweat and usually, thirty seconds later my fight-or-flight would kick in and and I’d be out of there. With the exception of blushing (which for some reason is getting worse. A universal unfairness that blushing makes you blush more which makes you blush more which makes…I disgress) with the exception of blushing, thankfully with age, most of the layers of awkwardness are slowly, reptile-y shedding themselves.
And then, there was yesterday. I was collecting some paintings from a tiny art shop in town, which is run by a beautiful boy, with totally manly, long hair, blue grey eyes and an air of endearing shyness. We awkwardly, shyly, determinedly make small talk whilst he wraps the paintings. Winter, the strike, why I am wearing what look like man shoes, Winter again.
I lend him a pen to write the invoice. For an awkward person and a shy person, it’s all going rather well until I say, “Okay, thank you for everything” and reach foward to get my pen back. Long haired, shy boy inexplicably takes my hand. So suddenly, there we stand, with nothing but sweaty palms and a bic pen between us, awkwardly, shyly holding hands on a Wednesday morning in a teeny art shop in town.
Holy pandas toenails you guys, it was awkward. As if the situation wasn’t Titaniced enough already I chuck another ice berg at it by saying, “Uh, I just wanted my pen back.” To which he replies, “Yes, uh, my bad”. The next few minutes are a blush-filled haze of dropping my car keys, bashing my foot, stumbling over saying goodbye and feeling just darn betrayed by my own awkwardness.
Lesson learnt: Always carry two pens.