Found this quiz over at Suze’s. Based on my last post, the results were as expected.

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.

This post is part of the Grassroots Blogger Book Marketing Campaign 2008, and is meant to generate donations for The Rape Abuse and Incest National Network (RAINN).

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Jared was about as accurate as the Psychic Friends Network. My freshman year of high school I had braces and glasses, I was still shopping for clothes in the children’s department at Caldor, I wasn’t yet tall enough to ride roller coasters, and my “breasts” barely filled an A cup bra.

Oh yeah. I was a heartbreaker.

For the duration of freshman year, a group of upperclassman referred to me as “Mouse.” I acted as if the nickname was a term of endearment, even though it was clearly delivered as a taunt and I had overheard the ringleader explain to someone, “Cause, you know, she’s just such a mousy little thing.”

I was well on my way to earning the title of “Least Likely to Get Laid.” And then things got weird.

In the summer between my freshman and sophomore year, the boob fairy finally came to me. Perhaps due to the extended wait time, she decided to be generous. I went to sleep a girl with a roomy A cup bra and woke up needing a 36C.

I suppose I should have been excited about becoming a woman. I mean, yeah, my mom hadn’t really sat me down to talk to me about it, but I had read Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret. Yet there I was, inhabiting a whole new body I wasn’t comfortable in. I was scared. Suddenly I had huge sweater kittens and bled from the genitals. Judy Blume couldn’t prepare me for that.

If the kids at school noticed my transformation, they didn’t say anything. Not to my face anyway. However, I did finally wind up with my first (and only) high school sweetheart. We smashed our whirlwind romance into the last few weeks of sophomore year. He called me a couple times to talk about cats and homework. I think he held my hand on the way to the cafeteria once. And he bought me a cookie. In retrospect I suppose it’s not quite what you picture when you think of horny teenagers. My peers were having abortions. I was having . . . chocolate chips.

At the time I didn’t find it at all unusual. After all, my friends were virgins. As far as I knew, I wasn’t any different than anyone else. Of course, I had no real knowledge about sex, I had never experienced arousal, and I still had yet to kiss a boy. But you know, other than that, totally typical.

I nearly missed my junior prom. My mom called in a favor and had the neighbor’s son take me. It was possibly more humiliating than staying home.

I skipped the senior semi-formal . . . after getting shot down by two guys.

In fact, the only one who seemed to show any real interest in me during my high school years was one of the vice-principals. I had never even really met him but once, and I would have preferred to go my entire high school career without knowing him. The week before graduation the valedictorian and I spent our afternoons practicing our speeches with our English teacher. I vividly remember sitting on a desk waiting for my classmate one day when the vice-principal came in to speak with the teacher. I recall little of the conversation, only that while my instructor’s back was turned as he rummaged through a file cabinet, the creepy vice principal sidled up to me and caressed my face. It was so unexpected and unwelcome that I nearly fell off my seat.

That one small incident bothered me tremendously, probably more than it should have. But I had never had anyone touch my cheek before, and there was something eerily intimate about the gesture. There was more to it too. A little seed of sadness began to grow inside me. Somewhere in the back of my mind I connected the bit of attention with my new body and fought back dread that this was only the beginning.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

DONATE TO RAINN HERE. And if you’re feeling especially generous, please mention the GBBMC:08 and my name & blog in the “donation in honor of” field. Thanks for your support!

This post is part of the Grassroots Blogger Book Marketing Campaign 2008, and is meant to generate donations for The Rape Abuse and Incest National Network (RAINN).

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The defining characteristic of my sexual history is there isn’t much of it.

I know that probably seems strange for someone nearly thirty years old, but I assure you that my marathon of inexperience wasn’t intentional. As I mentioned previously, I never received “The Talk,” so I knew precious little about sex in my youth.

My sexual education began to come in bits and pieces when I started public school at the age of nine. I might have had some sort of foundation to build upon if I were one of those little girls that played Doctor or House. Of course, I couldn’t be bothered with games like that. I was an active child who liked to run around outdoors, usually pretending I was one of the Thundercats or perhaps Wonder Woman. I also favored Cops and Robbers, which wasn’t as popular with my parents because they kept finding children tied to my swingset.

Bondage exercises aside, I was pretty clueless.

It was in those later elementary school years that I recall learning what the term virgin meant. I was familiar with the word. I had spent five years at Saint Peter & Saint Paul, after all. I knew Mary was a virgin and that it was relevant somehow to baby Jesus. But beyond that I couldn’t give much of a definition. Our teachers always got fuzzy on the specifics.

I also remember distinctively when in the sixth grade a classmate asked me, “Stacey, have you ever kissed a boy?” I was eleven. The boys I knew liked to make farting sounds with their armpits, flick boogers in the girls’ hair, and handle worms. And as far I as was concerned, kissing was for grown-ups and people in love. Why anyone would want to try that with the kid behind me that kept kicking my chair during math was unfathomable. My surprise at the question was apparent, so before I could fumble for an appropriate answer another classmate chirped, “Of course she hasn’t. Stacey is a prude.”

Prude was another new word for me. I wasn’t sure what it meant, only that it was said with disdain. How was I to know that my peers were already practicing sucking each other’s faces off?

If my ignorance wasn’t readily apparent in elementary school, it certainly became well-known in middle school. My first day of the new school year I immediately noticed that my classmates seemed, well, different. That summer puberty had come to the entire seventh grade . . . except me. This meant two things:

1. I would be forced to endure three years of hearing “Stacey’s so flat she makes the walls jealous!”

2. My peers were now driven by hormones. Hormones that hadn’t made any effort to begin stirring within me.

I was suddenly a child among women. My peers paraded around the schoolyard showing off their new curves and talking about Spin the Bottle and Seven Minutes in Heaven (neither of which have I ever played). Meanwhile I hadn’t yet discovered makeup. I was years away from a training bra. Hell, my mother never even advised me on when to start shaving my legs. I felt woefully out of place, though I couldn’t understand exactly why . . .

“And when he walked away I could still feel the warmth of his handprint on my ass!” my friend Sarah eagerly shared with a group of us. As it often does, my face betrayed my shock. “Don’t mind Stacey,” she continued, rolling her eyes. “She still thinks boys are yucky.” Laughter.

I didn’t, in fact, think boys were yucky. I adored boys ever since Brian Segal held my hand as we recited Jack and Jill together for Kindergarten graduation. Something about boys’ impish grins had a way of sending my heart aflutter. Perhaps to prove this fondness, when a boy who lived nearby had his friend call me to see if I’d “go out” with him, I said yes. I had no more interest in my new beau than I did in any other boy, really, but even at the age of thirteen I was aware that “going out” meant nothing more than a declaration of mutual like, at most. After three months of awkward phone calls and passing notes on the schoolbus, the boy’s friend called again. My first boyfriend and I amicably parted ways.

The school year was winding down by then, and soon it was time for the eighth grade dance. I remember slow dancing with a number of boys, but one in particular sticks out in my mind. His name was Jared, I believe. I didn’t know Jared well, so I was surprised and a bit intimidated when he caught me in the hallway and told me to remember to save a dance for him. That’s not why I remember Jared though. I remember Jared because as we swayed in little circles to the music, he leaned down and whispered in my ear, “I bet one day you’ll be the prettiest girl in high school.”

Me? The girl that didn’t seem to have a prayer of growing breasts? The girl that was trying to get used to wearing nylons and wouldn’t dream of attempting to walk in heels? The girl who now had braces and still had never kissed a boy? Was he serious?

I wouldn’t have to wait long to find out. High school loomed just on the horizon . . .

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

DONATE TO RAINN HERE. And if you’re feeling especially generous, please mention the GBBMC:08 and my name & blog in the “donation in honor of” field. Thanks for your support!