A Happy Hour, An Unhappy Night

11/29/2021- a happy hour, an unhappy night

    By mind one way, in real life another. Such are the ways of the Woman of Few Words. I really should be studying for finals, but alas, I am here divulging my musings to a public diary that only I care to see. Aren't those the best, after all? The world's eyes may scour if they wish, but they won't. Which is, coincidentally, the theme for today!

    

    Dating as a shy girl has been tough. And the reason I am singling out my shyness as the primary (though I am sure not only) factor is because, when all variables are controlled, it seems to be the aggravating factor to this Quiet Quinn's dating woes. 

    Take, for instance, today. I am in my grandmother's house, worried yet excited about the pending social gathering with my work. I look in the mirror and realize that finals are not, cannot, be the reason for hair that feels coarse like hay and probably smells like it belongs in a barn too. I decide to wash my hair, and spray perfume that is titled Angel, which smells like what one would imagine angels smell like. Good, in case anyone imagines angels smell otherwise. Divine. I dress in my Tuesday night best, tight-fitting clothes, yet not too revealing. (I did mention this was a work shindig? With bosses? Coworkers? People that have direct control over my livelihood?) 

    I enter the premises with as much confidence as I could muster, which largely amounts to that of a muster seed. Yet, this outing will have alcohol involved. I am not promoting alcoholism, and I am not one myself. However, they don't call alcoholic beverages liquid courage for nothing. I down three light beers, which happen to do the trick for this light-and shy-weight. And I blossom. Briefly, in fact, if one blinks they may just miss it. But almost as if those aforementioned angels grant a miracle for their divine-smelling human counterpart, I am no longer afraid of the jury in front of me. 

    The jury. I should have started from the beginning. Since this post and blog are for me, I presume I know what my limitations are, and what those fears that lurk in the bowels of my mind entail. But, no good-or mediocre-midnight writing would be complete without some exploration into my psyche. 

    I have always been shy. I think my mom once relayed that I was a cute baby, a Gerber one, but not the smiling kind. I wasn't affectionate or particularly friendly, even before the childhood trauma of mean middle school boys and girls. I was probably predisposed to the introversion trait because my father is also quiet. If only my mom had bred with a more outgoing man, I wouldn't be writing this today. And what fun would be in that? 

    I am not going to get into the experiences that "turned on" the introversion gene. As a brief commercial break for a psychology lesson, there is a concept in developmental psychology that states that we are all born with predispositions to certain genes. This is the "nature" part of our development. Then, experiences in our childhood "turn on" some genes over others. The "nurture" aspect. In addition, there is another loosely tied concept that is particularly relevant for children with less desirable traits. Instead of shyness, we'll use aggression, and pair it with an old adage. What came first, the chicken or the egg? I am sure there is an answer to this somewhere in the depths of the web. There is, after all, an answer to the question that posits if water is wet. (Water is not wet independently. However, being that the property of wetness is determined by making contact with water molecules, an individual water molecule is not wet on its own, but may be wet when it is joined by a second water molecule. Isn't it romantic? Water has better meet-cutes that make them wet than I, a human being, have in the real world.) 

    Anyway, the adage may be extended to personality traits, or genes. Was the child always aggressive, or did society make them aggressive? I hate using society as a scapegoat here, and I really won't any further. However, I utilize the boogeyman as a factor to illustrate the uncertainty of our origins, the things that make us who we are. A child predisposed to aggression may manifest some aggressive behaviors, which in turn elicit negative responses from those around them. These negative responses, in turn, make the child more aggressive, and thus their gene is "turned on." Round and round we go. The child more aggressive, the responses worse, etc. You get the picture. You've met this kid, or are this kid. Or, if you're like me, you're this kid, but substitute aggression with shyness. 

    Again, although my detours are about to take me to another continent, I truly want to stay on topic. I do have three finals to study for, after all. 

   

    I have always been shy, and my manifestations of shyness resulted in people treating me as such. I didn't have many friends, and I wasn't every teacher's pet (despite being one of the smarter kids in class who actually liked school). I also had a bad, not just nonexistent, track record with boys, and now men. This is what our focus will be moving forward, with certain deviations for historical context.

    As a preface, I do not write this for sympathy. I understand that this issue is minor in comparison to many others in the world. I also understand that feelings are valid, but ultimately just that, feelings. I only write to vent in a medium in which I can be myself. Not Quiet Quinn, but me. I don't get to do that too often, and especially not in public. 

    Anyway, the jury! I swear I have never been diagnosed with ADHD, in case you were wondering. The jury is people, the wide public audience that I make them out to be. The jury is you. I judge myself, and I think everyone else is too. Perhaps some are, and probably most aren't. But in my mind, they all are. I cower at the prospect that people think I'm weird, boring, or annoying. I limit the basic ability of enjoying life because I so desperately want others to like me. Mind you, I'm not 17 anymore. This isn't the moment to burst into an Olivia Rodrigo song about how it's so brutal out here. Although, people telling me to enjoy my youth still makes me cry. I won't give away my age, but I'm somewhere in my early to mid-twenties. 
    
    I know it sounds dramatic. Frankly, it's cathartic to put my thoughts on (electronic) paper and realize how silly they are. Who cares what people think? A part of me screams, banging on the anxiety that entraps my words and silences my voice. It wills it to leave, but the anxiety stays unmoved. It's been here for more than two decades. Who am I to evict it from my brain?  

    Yet, that liquid courage is a new variable that 17 year old me did not have available. As another brief side note, I've always been a good kid. I didn't drink until I was... almost 21, mathematically, if you round it up I was 21. 

    

    I down my three beers, and I am briefly myself. Exchanging witty banter, unafraid of offending others. Divulging my political beliefs without fear of being ostracized. Talking to cute boys without a thought of what the conversation means. Do they like me, or like me not? It's not an age-old question that my mind is concentrated on. I'm just having fun. I'm just enjoying the moment I know is fleeting. Because beer turns to sugar, and it doesn't last forever. And my anxiety, briefly drunk off of barley, is sober yet again. 

    But this isn't about a lesson on alcohol and how it helps me cope with my fears. This is about what happened after myself became me, myself, and anxiety. This is about the potential acceleration into that state. 

    Remember one of the things I said I could do when I wasn't so scared? No, not the witty banter or political beliefs. The talking to cute boys one? Well, I was able to today. I said a couple of things that were witty. At least they drew a couple laughs from my jury, who at the time were just people. And it felt nice. I made this cute boy laugh!!!!! Fun fact, I used to have this weird fear in middle and high school that I wasn't funny. I attributed my worth and identity to this singular personality trait I believed I lacked. I eventually learned to cope, and eventually detach myself from, the fear. But lately, it's been creeping its unfunny head more than I hoped. Or ironically funny, depending on how you look at it. 

    So I felt good. I now no longer just smelled good, but felt good. Then it happened... what always does. I can make another post on my dating woes that contextualizes things further. But for now, the Sparknotes version.

    I've never been in a relationship. I've only been on, approximately, five dates. I've never held hands with a boy, let alone done anything physical. I used to be overweight in high school and college. I attributed my lack of success to this particular identified defect. Never mind that there were many other overweight girls in relationships. But, as my anxiety dictates, I like to believe I have control over my life. My being overweight, in conjunction with not taking care of my physical appearance, was my semblance of control over my inadequacy in this area. 

    But I lost weight in 2019. I got skinny. I started taking care of my physical appearance. And I did get more male attention. Scratch that, male attention in general. I still remember the day in college I was first hit on by a cute guy in a bar. It felt like a movie, and it might as well have been. Because lately, it seems I've switched discs (or Netflix content, I swear I'm a Zillennial), and am back to my previous feature film.

    I became more confident. Boys liked me. I was a girl boys could like. Once in high school, a boy gave me a fake number after I'd ask for it for friendly purposes. For this, I will disclose a name. Fuck you Anthony.  

    It felt good to be desired by the opposite sex, especially attractive members of it. It felt nice to have more than just my mom calling me beautiful. (We won't get into why I'm not mentioning aforementioned quiet dad in this post, but alas, who didn't predict I'd have daddy issues?)  

    I became more social. And then, I embarked on a journey that made me even more confident and social. I was hit on by more men, and suddenly it felt like I'd reached my happily ever after. Sure, I still hadn't had my first kiss or boyfriend. I'm traditional, and am saving that for the right person, not just a sweaty guy at a club who can't even afford a drink. But I still liked that said sweaty guy liked me. I returned from my adventure a new me. And that attention continued once I was back in my hometown. 

    Then March 2020 happened. 

    Being locked down was weird. It's like it reset that social, confident side of me. Once school started again, I became reserved. Scared. Self-conscious. I wanted-no, needed-friends. My desperation oozed out of me like that barn smell my hair had earlier today. I'm pretty sure people could sense it. Perhaps they thought I was standoffish, or arrogant, when really, I was like a spider. Eight-legged and hairy. Kidding! I was more scared of them than they were of me.  That same desperation extended to men. I realized that male attention wasn't as prevalent. Mind you, most of it during 2019 was at bars and clubs. And none of us were really doing that in 2020. But it was still there, from attractive men. And then it was gone. I was once again the girl a boy once told in front of the entire class he didn't like. I was the girl to whom a male "friend" once said he couldn't see anyone dating. I was me again, the me I'd tried so hard to kill. 

    I know I shouldn't have derived my happiness or confidence from others. I know I shouldn't be obsessed with bars and clubs because of the temporary dopamine high I obtain from a cute boy granting me attention. But I couldn't help it. All of my experiences had been negative related to my self-image, and those boys changed that. 

    I'd have a few other run-ins with cute boys who didn't reciprocate my attraction. All of them occurred in the span of a few months this year, with boys I met in school. Online wise, I met one boy who did like me in the summer. Unfortunately, I was the one who couldn't reciprocate. Then I had an ordeal with a catfish who created his account to target me personally, another story I won't touch upon, and that turned me off from online dating. So I'm sticking to the traditional route, along with all of its many crushing lows and seemingly nonexistent highs.  

    Back to today, what this post was supposed to be about originally. The clock is ticking and with each keyboard clicking (who doesn't love some midnight rhymes?) my brain is wearing out. So I'll cut to the chase. (This line is more clever than you might think, but you're going to have to trust me on that.)

    

    My crippling, nosediving self-esteem, practically on life support-you get the picture-is doing okay tonight. I feel pretty, I'm more talkative than usual, I'm witty, and people are responding. Including cute boy #1, who we'll call Samuel. This name has zero relation to anything, but I wanted the name to be as far as possible from the real name. I don't expect anyone to read this, but in the event someone does, I don't need life to throw me a cruel twist of fate for a late-night musing. 

    Then it happens. On every occasion with cute boys recently, something goes wrong. They rudely ignore. They politely friendzone. They nicely acquitancezone. They oddly never show up to our common class again, thus eliminating all hope of a meet-regular. Here, it was a new one, as it has been almost every time. I'm pretty sure the universe is going down a list of 100 ways to reject someone, and I'm the subject. Guess I ended up having a novel-type life after all, even if it excludes the meet-cute. 

     This time, aforementioned cute boy #1, Samuel, hits on another girl in our work. Mind you, there's about 10 or so men in this event. No one is hitting on anyone. And this guy had a girlfriend until recently. Then he does this, and everyone comments on it. I have to sport my best pokerface and hope the billowing tears crashing against the back of my eyes don't erupt unceremoniously down my cheeks. Alcohol also makes me emotional, and coupled with my insecurities, it's a cocktail for disaster. I briskly revert back into my shell. My shoulder's tense. My eyebrows perspirate. My hands shake. My heart races. The jury's back. 

    I want to go home, but I'm afraid they'll talk poorly of me when I leave. He sits next to me, and my leg stiffens when it touches his. He must think I hate him. My thoughts race and blame me for a multitude of outcomes and reactions I can't control. Because if there are two things in life we really can't control, it's people and the weather.

    At this point I would have wished for rain, if I did have a say regarding Mother Nature's plans. This was an outdoor gathering. I would have gone home, and snuggled under my blankets, and written this an hour earlier, or maybe not at all. But what's the fun in that?

    I stayed longer than I should have, analyzing my every move and everyone else's facial reactions. Her eyebrows twitched up when I made that comment. It must have been poorly worded; she obviously thought it was weird. What should I say to his question? Should I try to be funny or would they perceive that as trying too hard? Am I trying too hard? I want to go home but I dread saying goodbye. Cute boy #1, Samuel, is with that girl. She's funny, witty, and outgoing. Basically, everything I'm not. 

    My mom texts me that she wants to go home. She had taken me to the location, since drinking was involved and it was near her job. This was my excuse. I postpone it briefly, my hopeful side wishing that this night wouldn't result in what it was destined to result. 

    Then I leave. I leave normally. No one would suspect that I'd cry in the car, lamenting my current state of affairs. No one would suspect I'd be up at 1am, not studying for my three finals, but writing this diary post. My pokerface successfully removes me from a situation without any whispers. Or at least, I hoped it did.

    And that was it. I don't know why I've had such bad luck for so long. I don't know why I keep getting pushed down when I'm already on the ground. Frankly, I didn't necessarily like this boy that much. He's cute, and I guess I'm tired of not being anyone's first choice. Scratch that, anyone's choice at all. At the end of the day, tomorrow I'll wake up and study for my finals. This night will be filed into my other mishaps, until the next one. They've been happening more frequently lately, so perhaps another blog post will occur soon. Or perhaps not. I tend to pick up projects at times and leave them unfinished. I myself am, after all.

    I attribute a lot of it to luck, maybe some brujeria (kidding, but also, wouldn't mind a despojo right now), and my shyness. There's many other reasons in the mix, but the truth is that this isn't about a particular guy. Cute boy #1 maybe likes brunettes instead of (dark) blondes. Cute boy from the last happy hour maybe likes (light) blondes instead of (dark) blondes. And so forth. The point is that most people find at least one person that likes them back. And I haven't. The point is that Samuel is a placeholder for the everyman that makes me feel like nowoman. I pray to God for a miracle, because at this point I think that's what it would take. 

    I think men typically prefer outgoing, loud, and witty women. I see it around me all the time. Perhaps it's because of a shift in the media regarding desirable women. Well-behaved women never make history is a common quote parroted in the public. Outgoing women are touted in movies as more attractive alternatives to the demure, soft-spoken, shy girl. That girl is a relic of the past, of patriarchy, and is thus relegated to history. Fun girls are the sought-after girls these days. Here for a good time, not a long time, right? This is not to bash those girls, quite the contraire. I admire them for the bravery it takes to be themselves and envy them for being blessed with no shyness or social anxiety. It just takes longer to get to know girls, and people like me, in general. And most people don't really care to wait that long for the flower that blooms in adversity, and that takes ages to grow its red-hued leaves. 

    But again, this wasn't for sympathy. It was nice to have my thoughts out in the open. I will now go briefly to online dating, not to meet anyone, but to garner some likes to at least slightly repair my self-esteem. I'll study for finals, hang out with my family, and talk to the friends I have. And until the next happy hour, when I am once again thrown into an existential crisis regarding the shy girl's love life.