Print Edition: February 26, 2014
I forgot her name
She looked the part — dark brown hair, cute pastel pants, a jean button-down shirt, and a chunky knit scarf. She went to the university that all Rachels seem to go to, and had a sweet Rachel-esque personality.
We were introduced, and her name was definitely NOT Rachel.
I had a few brief conversations with her boyfriend (a good friend of mine) about her. I expressed my excitement about their new relationship and how I thought she was such a great girl.
Perhaps it was one of those circumstances, where two names, for some reason in my illogical brain, seem to morph onto one face. Perhaps the problem was that I didn’t say her name 10 times in my head (you know the rule when you meet someone for the first time — apparently saying it 10 times helps). Perhaps I just blanked out in our initial introduction when she said, “Hi I’m _____.”
The reason didn’t matter — what mattered was the gut wrenching terror and utter humiliation I felt after I had sent a celebratory Facebook message. Did I seriously just hit the send button?
The message read: “Congratulations on your engagement to Rachel. I am so happy for you!”
Her name was Katherine.
Hug ‘em? Feed ‘em? Who knows
When someone starts crying, even if they are my friends, my awkward tendencies kick into maximum overdrive — what do you say to someone who’s crying? Consolations such as, “there, there,” or “everything will be okay,” only carry a sentiment so far. Often those statements don’t mean anything anyway — they’re not even good silence-fillers.
I guess we could hug, but that can be extremely awkward. How long are you supposed to hug? How do you know if that person even wants a hug? What are you supposed to do with your hands? All these factors play a part in creating a kerfuffle for those who are awkwardly inclined.
I have found one method for coping with bouts of extreme awkwardness — never leave the house without a snack. You can always offer food! But then again, if they don’t like or want food, I guess they might have reason to cry after all.
My genetic makeup is 40 per cent sarcastic, 10 per cent bookworm, 15 per cent food addict, five per cent unladylike snort, and 30 per cent awkward, so when I say, “want some crackers?” — you can trust me. I’m doing my best to make you feel better.
Ignoring salespeople
I hate kiosks.
Not the innocent, silent ones that mind their own business until you willingly approach them. I hate the kiosks in the mall where the salespeople are paid to stand in your way with a creepy gleam in their eyes — the one that tells me I’m about to lose five minutes of my life trying to protest through this person’s spiel — whatever it is.
I used to feel more awkward about it — in the past, when one of them caught my eye and started to talk to me, I felt compelled to “be polite” and listen to what he or she had to say. I would gently attempt to extract myself from the kiosk’s black-hole-like atmosphere by lying: NO — I didn’t want a new straightening iron, and I already had a nail-buffing kit, and I had already bought presents for Christmas several months in advance.
Now if I see one I pull out my phone, glue my eyes to it, and double my speed. If the salespeople try to talk to me, I ignore them.
I don’t know what’s more awkward: my old technique, this gauntlet-run, or reaching the end of a line of kiosks only to realize I went the wrong way and have to turn back around.
Do I know you?
Maybe we went to high school together, or maybe we were in first-year English. Maybe we had a semi-interesting conversation at the bus stop or while we were waiting to settle up in AfterMath.
Regardless of where we know each other from, we never really knew each other that well. More importantly, we are now walking toward each other in the hall, and are faced with that age-old question: are we going to acknowledge each other’s existence?
If so, we have a plethora of awkward options. The half-smile. The eye-contact conversation. The semi-wave. The how-are-you-no-how-are-YOU conversation. Maybe you’re a hugger. God, I hope you’re not a hugger.
But one thing’s for sure: it’s going to be awkward. It’s going to be very, very awkward.
Maybe I’ll just pretend not to see you.
Seriously — that class was a long time ago.
