Introductions, or why I don’t make new friends

Introductions have always been an awkward thing for me. I don’t consciously mean to, but the first time I meet someone new, everything that comes out of my mouth is either 1) highly exaggerated, or 2) ridiculously invasive. If I’m not drunk. Then it’s a whole other story.

LIKE ME! LIKE ME! PLEASE BE MY FRIEND!

I suppose it comes from being chronically, painfully, self-conscious. I don’t even look up at servers at restaurants for fear they might, I don’t know, use their magical laser eyes to probe my brain for embarrassing secrets.

My fiance can attest to this. The first time we met, I was a hot mess of intrusive girl tics surrounded by a nougatty layer of personal space issues.

He had been MySpace stalking me for a while (ew, I know) and after finally fighting my rebuffs, we met for some full frontal nerdity at my new apartment. Up until this point, we had only ever e-mailed back and forth and had a few painfully short conversations on the phone. I wasn’t sure how anything would turn out, or if he secretly harbored the desire to make my flesh into a lampshade, so I warned family and friends that a 911 text meant I needed help. Immediately.

He was fifteen minutes late, lost, and completely adorable in a red Atari shirt. After locating him in a parking lots three buildings over, we made awkward introductions complete with awkward half-hugs and I led him upstairs. To quell my nervousness, I also introduced myself to a bottle of my good friend, Senor Cuervo. My tequila glasses were firmly in place by the time I remembered I needed to offer my guest something to drink, and I can remember him surveying the mostly empty bottle with those judgy-judge eyes I still get when he comes home and I haven’t taken a shower yet.

But I digress.

By the end of the night, I was slaying him at Guitar Hero while horrifying him with my profanity laden smack talk. (Fuck you, guy I just met. I owned that solo. HARD. Now bask in the glory of my 200 note streak.) I had also asked him every personal question from the No Wonder You’re Still Single, You Dumb Slut handbook no-no list, while trying to keep a lid on my ridiculous competitive nature. Finally, we were standing at his truck when I dropped one more syrupy nugget of awkwardness.

“So. What’s your relationship status?”

I swear to God. Like a frigging toddler filling out a Facebook profile. He of stepped back ever so slightly and tried to pry open his truck one-handed. (Back away, crazy tequila-swilling cat lady. And please don’t make me into a lampshade.) Before he laid rubber racing out of the parking lot, he told me he was single.

Well, that’s the end of that, I thought. Now I’m gonna go polish off the rest of that tequila to chase those damn relationship gnomes away.

Nearly three years later, we live together and have a nineteen month-old son. He still has to, ahem, ask me to marry him. But I’m hopeful that day is coming soon–my wish list has been requested. That’s a start.

So that’s a little bit about me, internet. I’m a mommy. Super-super-super senior. Plastic lawn flamingo enthusiast. Nosy neighbor. One-day novelist. Let’s get to know each other slowly, and I’ll try not to spill a drink down my dress on our first date.

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About Chelsie

Mommy. Beauty product whore. Plastic lawn flamingo enthusiast. Nosy neighbor. One day novelist.
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