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.


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.


About Chelsie

Mommy. Beauty product whore. Plastic lawn flamingo enthusiast. Nosy neighbor. One day novelist.
This entry was posted in Boo, Internetland, Red. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s