There’s been a lot of talk about introverts this week, maybe so much so that you’re sick of reading about it.

You should skip this post then.

Still with me? Awesome.

As I was heading home today, I ran into a guy that I don’t know very well, but who seems quite comfortable talking to me. I know this because tonight he chatted at with me for forty minutes straight. The first few minutes weren’t bad, but for most of the duration of the time, I stood there shifting my weight from leg to leg, waiting for the opportunity to bolt to my car. As the sun began to set and the monologue conversation continued (complete with long awkward silences), I thought, “God, I wish he’d shut up.”

Usually I’m that guy.

Have you ever been talking to someone and you can tell they’re smiling to be polite when they’re clearly beginning to feel bored/uncomfortable/homicidal and it makes you so nervous that you keep talking even though your brain is screaming, “Shut up! Please, stop. You’re making an ass of yourself!”

Or have you noticed that whenever you’re in a group of people and you’re right in the middle of saying something a couple folks will begin a conversation right over you and no one seems to notice (nor care) that you were interrupted even as you trail off awkwardly, stare at your shoes, and wonder why you were so stupid as to speak at all?

Or do you secretly feel foolish for having a blog because you honestly can’t imagine that anyone would ever read it or be interested in anything you have to say?

That would be me.

Long ago I realized that I do not possess the type of dynamic personality that draws in other people and commands their complete attention. No, I was the little girl that didn’t have any friends. I was the classmate who was chosen last for everything and was generally ignored. I was the kid who never had a “real” birthday party because my mother truly feared that no one would show up.

As such, I developed an abysmal sense of self-esteem and became severely introverted.

When I read about bloggers meeting each other and attending kick-ass events like TequilaCon, part of me burns to do the same. But then I start to worry “What if they don’t like me?” “What if I can’t think of anything to say?” “What if they don’t want to hear what I have to say?” And then I remember that if I’m around more than two people at a time I completely shut down. By then I have an anxiety attack just thinking about it, so I stay home and curse that I couldn’t be a social butterfly like my sister.

You know what? It sucks. And it’s time to do something about it.

The Captain is going to a party this weekend and he wants me to come. Usually I’d feign a serious case of ebola or dysentery or something to get out of it. But for once I’m going to force myself to go. And this time I’m not going to sit in the corner, practically under the Captain’s chair. In fact, I’m going to make an effort to participate in conversation. I’m going to smile and attempt to actually have fun.

I’m not playing Charades though.

I’ve gotta draw the line somewhere.