Of course I was sporting sweats with my “Mizzou Agriculture” shirt and carrying a box of Zebra Cakes, a bag of pretzels and a ukulele when I happened to run into Ringo (No, not the Beatle. It’s a code name. If this confuses you, please refer to last week’s column.) in the hallway of my dorm. I am taking this encounter as a sign from the universe that it doesn’t want Ringo and me to be together because if it did, it would have kindly suggested I not look like a total fatass when I left my room that evening.
He probably wouldn’t have even seen me if I hadn’t physically run into the kid. He’s so tall, and I’m so short that we kind of live on different planes. However, there is promise on the horizon. When I bumped into Ringo, my brain cells immediately shut down so I would be free to stutter like an idiot. After some conversation that should not have been awkward but was, Ringo asked if I had a stapler. DID I EVER. (A stapler and so much more.)
I’m not sure exactly sure why Ringo needed my stapler (I’m guessing it was along the lines of attaching papers), but I do know that he is now in possession of something that is mine. And since he is an upstanding citizen, at some point he will want to return that stapler. When he does, we’ll have to meet again — face to face.
By that time I will have prepared so many excellent stapler jokes for the occasion that I won’t even know which to choose. I have a few ready now, just in case. I could say, “Thanks so much for bringing this back! It’s a staple in my collection of desk supplies,” or “Oh, don’t go! Stay, plz.” These are just two gems. I have so many more ready to go in my treasure chest of jokes.
In the meantime, I need to fix this freaking out thing that I do. The instant I see someone who is (a) male, (b) straight and (c) attractive (flexible on the attractive part), I panic. What is that? Does everyone have that problem? I think they call it “butterflies” in books and stuff, but that makes it sound so pleasant when really it’s just horrific.
The horrible paradox here is that this only happens when I actually care about someone’s opinion of me. I have no problem sassing people I don’t know, flirting with people I don’t even like and turning down fraternity guys at parties. I’m going to be a journalist, for God’s sake. I have to get used to harassing people for a living. But for some reason it’s so difficult for me to sound interesting and intelligent in front of someone who has caught my eye.
How do I fix this? Do I just stop caring what people think of me? That would probably do. But no matter what anyone says, that’s an impossibility. Even Charles Manson wanted people to like him.
I don’t think the “butterflies” are a thing that can be beaten. Like an intrusive roommate, they’re always walking in on your date with a, “What’s up, guys? I thought we could all watch this movie together while you two don’t have sex!” But I guess that’s what makes things interesting. And while I’m anxious to find a suitor (only 13 columns to go!) I’ve got to give it some time.
So, my two lovely readers (Hi, Mom and Dad!), this week I’m going to challenge myself to get to know people and be more outgoing. Since I can’t abolish my case of the butterflies, I’ll embrace them. The awkwardness is all a part of the process of getting acquainted with someone, and if there was a way to skip over that inevitable stage, what would happen to the intrigue?
Universe, I appreciate your input, but I think I’ve got this one under control. Bring on the butterflies.
