TouchedByMadness

Confessions of a Know-It-All

My mother likes to tell me the story of when she brought me to the doctor’s office with her the day she confirmed she was pregnant with my sister. I was about eighteen months old at the time and amused myself in the waiting room by looking at books and calling out the letters I saw. The other women smiled at my apparent precociousness, although they assumed I couldn’t possibly know which name was associated with which symbol.

That is, until I pointed above the door and exclaimed, “Look, Mommy. E-X-I-T. That spells exit!”

That moment sealed my fate. From those days in diapers through the present, my mother has repeatedly told me, “You are smarter than most people.” I suppose such statements were intended to be good for my self esteem. Unfortunately, I believe my well-meaning parents provided me with just enough hubris to make me into a giant Know-It-All.

I realize that it is a particularly irritating personality flaw and my recognition of it within me leaves a gnawing pain every time I hear myself interject an unasked for answer. I’m sure the professors I corrected during college classes thought I was a smug, self-satisfied bitch. I’m certain past colleagues have whispered about me being a pretentious, ass-kissing elitist. I’m pretty positive I’ve annoyed multitudes of people, and all while just trying to be helpful.

So as much as I can nowadays, I try to keep quiet.

But is there ever a time that being a Know-It-All is a good thing?

Yesterday the Captain and I went for a walk. As we strolled along the road beside the lake I noticed a child, no more than two, naked except for a diaper, standing in a driveway. Alone. The toddler took no notice of us as he was busy examining the back of the truck he was standing behind.

“Nobody is watching that baby,” I said.

“Come on, there’s no one outside?”

“No, look. That child is out there by himself. I bet no one even knows where he is.”

There were several vehicles in the driveway (where the toddler was wandering), but the yard was quiet. No one else in sight. The only indication there were people around at all was an open side door leading out to the deck (above and behind the driveway).

“It’s none of our business. Come on.”

“But he’s about five feet from the road. I know it’s not a busy street, but across the road is the lake. What if he falls in?”

“What are you going to do? Ask the people around here who he belongs to?” The Captain seemed concerned but hesitant.

“We’ll end up reading about him in the paper tomorrow.”

Eventually the Captain convinced me that I’m not responsible for other people’s children and coaxed me along on our walk. Ultimately, I guess he’s right. Yes, it wasn’t my place to interfere. Yes, I do need to learn to mind my own business. Yes, I shouldn’t be dispensing advice unasked. But although I know saying something would have been extremely intrusive and would have most likely made serious waves, part of me feels like a terrible person because I kept walking.

Awesome, Something Else to Worry About All Day

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

Invisible

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.

Protected: The Words I Couldn’t Say

You Catholic Girls Start Much Too Late (Part II)

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).

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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.

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