From Afar

Amelia Krasinski

“I’m so sorry I did that. I so thought you had said goodbye, lol. It was kind of loud in there, wasn’t it? I didn’t mean to be so rude lol. It was great running into you guys. You should have come over and had pizza with us. It would have been fun catching up more. ”

SENT

The story I’m about to tell you is one I recall with great agony-crusted shame. A moment I’m not proud of, but I hope to find at least one soul who can relate so I don’t feel quite so bad about myself. Misery loves company and all that.

I have social anxiety. Do you know what that’s like? I hope not. So just in case you’re one of the lucky ones, let me describe it. 

Going to social events is probably the mental equivalent to football players prepping for the state championship. I have to mentally gear up. Pray that I won’t be self-conscious. Hope that I don’t freeze, do something awkward, say something tactless, or forget to say or do something obvious. Mentally rehearse what possible scenarios I can foresee (which never goes the way I want it to anyway). 

I want everyone around me to like me and think the best about me. But not at the usual levels which make us cooperative, social creatures. Paralyzing levels. If I am on my way to an event or party or any such thing, I put on my shiny metal mask, mirroring the moods and gestures of those around me to cover up the fact that my heart is being squeezed by 10,000 invisible gnomes. Doesn’t matter if it’s friends I've known for years, mother-in-law or who, the mask goes on, except maybe my mom. 

And, of course, since I’m so preoccupied with saying and doing just the right thing, my brain freezes and I end up doing the very thing which terrified me from the beginning… say something weird or painfully tactless or downright stupid. It’s a vicious, horrible cycle. 

So you can imagine it’s agonizing to run into people unexpectedly. There’s no time to rehearse, to mentally gear up, to adjust the mask. But what’s EVEN worse — I don’t think I’m alone in this even if you don’t have social anxiety— is running into acquaintances at the grocery store. It is literally the worst. 

Both of you are out minding your own business, buying squash and donuts, when you’re confronted with someone unexpected. You’re yanked out of the shopping zone and thrust into the polite zone. But you’re not polite, your dang shopping carts are blocking half the isle and everyone else around you is giving you evil glares as they scrape past.

So, if I see someone in the store I know, my best tactic is to look the other way. Pretend I’ve never seen them before, and— say, have you seen that fantastic sale on angel hair pasta? Wow, what a deal, I must get a closer look—  POOF, just like that, they’re gone and I can go about my life. 

This has worked pretty well so far. Generally other people do the same. Unless of course you run smack into each other and there’s no pretending that you didn’t see them without also pretending that you’d recently fallen into a pit of acid and had your retinas detached. A tactic which has yet to work.

Here’s what happened instead:

My husband and I ran to the store to get stuff for pizza– we were always making our own pizza in those days— having a jolly time, just the two of us. We’d finished checking out and were feet away from going home, turning on "The Office" and making our ritual cheese and carb feast when the encounter began. I knew right away the acid story was out. That half second of eye-contact sealed this as a face-to-face operation. We were thrust into the polite zone. And not only were we blocking a walkway, but we were blocking the dadgum exit. We were so close I could practically taste the rain-sodden pavement.

Instead, we turned our attention to the couple before us. The husband, Ben, was an old coworker of mine. My manager, in fact. My most notable encounter with him was the time when my drawer was short $20 and he didn’t think I stole it (I didn’t), but I needed to be more careful in the future. (Which strangely enough, happened to me twice at that job…) The wife, Katrina, was a fellow thespian back in high school. I didn’t know her well either, my first year being her last.

So there we were, standing in front of the exit, making it hard for everyone else trying to leave. Spitting out basic, soul-grinding small talk, longing to escape. Is this normal? Please tell me this is normal.

Several minutes squeezed by and Katrina made a comment I didn’t quite hear, so naturally I replied, “Okay, it was great running into you too. Bye.”  

I turned-tail and sped into the open air inhaling sweet freedom. My husband followed, trailing behind. I met his eye, excited to continue our evening together. His face didn’t hold the same emotion, but rather the foreboding shadow of something gone terribly amiss.

He proceeded to tell me what happened. Katrina hadn’t just said, “We have to let our dog out, she’s been in a kennel all day and she can only hold her pee for a few hours, if we don’t leave now we’ll have a river in our house.” BUT, “So do you live nearby?” 

This news eviscerated me.

“Do you live nearby?” is a question prompting a response. The continuance of conversation. Even, dare I say it, an invitation to dinner. NOT what I said. NOT “Okay, it was great running into you too, bye.” NOT turning heel and leaving. Inviting them to dinner would have been a nap by the beach compared to the pit of shame I found myself in as I slunk back to the car. 

Not only had I been rude, but I had been found out. They now knew that talking to them was a fear-inducing nightmare, and my poor husband got dragged under by association. They must be saying terrible, although possibly true, things about how rude I was and how awkward I was and how they never want to see me again because I’m such a social moron. They were probably talking that very second about how they noticed we were buying pizza ingredients and hoped I’d choke on cheese and die. You know, the usual stuff people say after an awkward encounter.

When we got home, I tried to redeem any last scrap of my dignity by hopping onto Facebook. After finding Katrina, I opened Messenger (Given the choice between a back-and-forth on Messenger and cleaning the toilet, I’d choose toilet 100% of the time). 

I then proceeded to type the above message. 

After which I closed my laptop and cleaned the toilet.

When, eventually, I had the courage to check if Katrina had replied. To see whether she did, in fact, hate me and tell me to my face that she hoped the pizza would kill me or what. I found a lovely reply saying something like, “no worries, I understand. Don’t worry about it,” and that sort of thing.

I basically never saw her or heard from her since. Until my brother and her little sister ran away together to Peru… but that’s a story for another time.

And now you know one of the most embarrassing encounters of my life. So, next time you meet with someone who’s horribly awkward, please, be patient with us, and if you’re really generous, do something awkward first and you’ll be our best friend for life… except that would involve social interaction soooo we’ll appreciate you forever — from afar.