Chamaeleon

It had become a necessity in this modern world, to interact with others. You ended up having a conversation virtually every day, whether it be as impersonal and tedious as a discussion at work, or as intimate as sweet nothings whispered into the ear of your significant other. Or maybe even something in between like a simple chat with a friendly stranger. It didn’t really matter if your conversation partner was physically present, or some unknown distance away and you were communicating solely through the far-reaching power of technology. It was just basically inevitable in the sphere of human life, that for at least some part of your day, you would find yourself in some form of dialogue or the other.

And there was a certain peculiar set of people that ruled the social world, who found it more of a joy than a pain, to engage recurrently in conversations, and to immerse themselves within crowds. Always proving very, very adept at navigating social situations, with a seemingly natural born effortlessness. She imagined them as sharks, cruising leisurely through the water, with the self-assurance – cockiness even – borne from the knowledge that they were experts in their abode and there were few that could ever hope to rival them in this their well-known domain. 

If they were sharks, she was a minnow. Small, unimportant and desperately trying to appear unobtrusive and unnoticeable by keeping to herself and staying off the radar. And yet, she'd watched them all the time, jealousy and admiration twisting in an ugly dance, at the utter ease they projected, utter confidence they commanded, as they cut through the crowd, at every single social function. She’d hang back in the shadows at yet another party, nursing her drink and aimlessly swiping through her phone, trying to appear absorbed, dreading the idea of a stranger coming over, with an almost paralyzing intensity. And when someone did wander up to her, some poor soul aiming to strike up conversation, she could never seem to get her thoughts in order enough to sound remotely interesting; she would stammer and hesitate in her anxiety and ultimately fail to keep their attention for more than a few measly moments.

And socializing wasn’t all just for fun and games, wasn’t all just pointless vapid nonsense; it also opened the doors to opportunities. Her friend, Camilla, had been, just a year prior, a struggling artist, barely keeping herself afloat through commissions that were few and far between. And it was at one of these outings they had, at a bar no less, that she’d taken a chance, and talked herself up to some random, who incredulously, had seemed deeply interested in her capabilities. And now, she was working in graphic design at a quite remarkable company.

So, after years of alternately despising and envying the socializers their charisma, it was only quite natural – the logical next step even – to want to become like that. She’d long accepted that she lacked a personality that flourished in crowds; was a homebody down to the core, and left to her, would pick a night of take-out and T.V. over a night out. And she’d also accepted that being that way was a limitation for her, and one she was no longer willing to entertain. Necessity, as it was said, was the mother of invention, though in this instance, invention was hardly the word to qualify whatever this was; much too strong of a word for something not nearly as significant. Invention implied something breath-taking and newsworthy was being developed, a new idea brought into creation to aid humanity on its path to enlightenment. For her however, this was just a small affair, simple and selfish, a solely personal development. Still, it was something that needed transformation. 

So, she’d taken a good long look at herself and decided to change what she saw. Infiltrated their lines and learnt from them until she was indistinguishable from the people who basically glided through the throng, commanding attention and interest as they flitted from area to area. In a way, being this way was a lot like acting – playing at a character she was not, donning a fake persona with a disposition so entirely different from hers. But it’d been necessary to do so; she was tired of being the one left in the corner at functions, the unspoken downer of her friend group that never seemed to really want to hang out, and always seemed to want to stay in. It’d been necessary to re-invent herself.

And she’d kept at it for so long, that the pretence at times seemed real. Fake it till you make it was more apt of a saying than she'd given it credit for, considering how perfectly it applied to her situation, how she'd slid into a role she was not. And she was rewarded for her efforts. Her friends seemed less annoyed with her, and the offers to go out seemed to multiply by the week. Where it would hitherto have overwhelmed her, she now welcomed the attention. To all invites, she said yes, as if her whole life had become one huge improv scene. It was like she were an appliance that had malfunctioned, with its settings forever stuck in the affirmative. She'd transformed into a curious mixture of doormat and party girl.

And sometimes, she would think to herself just how much of a social butterfly she’d metamorphosed into, and smile proudly. But then sometimes also, in the middle of talking with someone, she’d get hit with the almost unbearably nostalgic urge to just turn around and walk away till she was home, tuck her shoes by the door, curl up in her comforter on the couch and switch on the television to watch old reruns of a sitcom.

….

It’s at yet another party when Beatrice and Annie, two of the newest arrivals out of her ever enlarging friend group, walk up to her and excitedly exclaim that they will all be heading to a bar - for a change of scenery, they explain - in a few minutes, that she feels her control starting to crack. The announcement is given in a quite imperious tone, seeming to brook no room for disagreement. Though she knows logically that her friends would never directly force her to come along, she also knows that if she expressed reluctance, they would not be above guilting her until she gave in. So, she plasters on a smile and whoops excitedly, obediently following them out the door and scrambling into the Uber once it pulls up.

It’s three thirty in the morning, and she has work tomorrow, as she’s sure they do too. She feels dreariness and frustration tugging at her eyes, and still, she keeps silent, resentment building up within her. She’s resolved to keep mute and just ride it out until one of them, she can’t tell who at this point, wants to suddenly skip the bar and head to a club instead. “What do you think?” the one who’d spoken asks. "Where should we go?"

She looks tiredly towards her side to see Beatrice smiling drunkenly at her, face expectant. Even in the limited light of the cab, she can see the gleam of her friend's pearly whites marred by lipstick stains. The smear of dark red is startlingly vivid; for a second, it reminds her of blood. Again, she thinks of sharks, with grins of jagged teeth spattered with droplets of blood, having devoured their prey, and moving unhurriedly on to a next location to repeat their destruction, with a tantalizing new set of targets to torture.

Her social quota for the day was already dangerously close to expiring as it was, and she knows it wouldn’t last long at a club of all places. At least at a bar, there was the option to revert to her old habits: find a table in a corner and nurse a drink, while her friends had their fun. In a club, there was hardly the option for that, with the music and the dancing and the general rowdiness. She wouldn’t at all be able to even take a space to just sit and breathe. 

The dismay that hits her at the suggestion of the change of plans, is so startlingly palpable, she feels she might cry. It’s so exhausting keeping up a façade of extrovertedness, that it’s just expected she would want, even enjoy, being out all the time. Didn’t people need to rest, just relax and recharge their social battery at all?

And it’s at that exact moment the epiphany hits her. There was no reason at all, really none at all, to force herself to undergo something she knew she wouldn’t enjoy. She wasn’t under duress, wasn’t under compulsion from anyone to keep up this draining display. She wasn’t proving anything to anyone but herself. It didn’t really matter if she didn’t have the energy, or even the interest to want to go out all the time. People were different, and she could adapt herself accordingly, in a way she was most comfortable with, to fit the environment she found herself. She didn't need to put herself through pain to prove a point to nobody watching.

“I think I'll just go home instead,” she says simply.