You've had a long week. You deserve to laugh.
It's time for the Babbling Flow's Friday Funny!!
Because sometimes you just need to laugh at other people.
Today? It's ME.
Enjoy. And trust me: When you think it's bad? Keep reading.
It. Gets. Worse.
It. Gets. Worse.
I don't really hide the fact that I'm shy. Well, maybe I do--if you follow this blog I might seem kinda outgoing. But in real life? It's pretty hard for me to do things by myself--especially when I'm meeting people I don't know.
However, at the VA Festival of the Book--I did pretty well! I talked to people--including agents and authors (like the super sweet PJ Hoover) and barely even had any butterflies. Go me!
But at night? That one, fated weekend night when I stayed by myself? Oh man. I remembered why I get nervous by myself. Here's why:
*****
It's evening time and I've just come from a science fiction panel. I stop for a beer (fine, two) in historic Charlottesville--it's a beautiful day, so I sit outside at a restaurant in the downtown mall and people-watch. By myself. AND I enjoy it. (Ok, so I bbm a lot of the time, but it still counts.) I even get invited to a frat party! (I didn't go though... you know, kegstands the night before the festival probably would have been a bad idea.)When I get back to my hotel, I'm feeling more comfortable with doing things by myself. I suddenly remember all the movies I've gone to alone (I really do like to do that) and realize that doing other things alone could be just as easy.
I decide to go out to dinner instead of ordering in. There are plenty of little bar/restaurants by the hotel. I throw on a dress and rummage through my bag for the boots I brought. I love boots. Have a major fetish, in case you didn't know that. LOVE them. And I'd packed a pair of brown riding boots. The only problem is that usually it's my husband's job to help me get them on. Seriously, I am almost incapable of doing it without help. I'll lie down on a bed and stick a foot out, pulling at the boots while he pushes to get them over my heels. Teamwork at its finest.
The first boot goes on ALMOST smoothly. It only takes me about two minutes of pushing and pulling and hopping around. I'm pretty proud of myself. Then comes the second boot. The dreaded right foot. I kid you not, it takes me five minutes to wrangle that thing on--and I'm sweating by the end of it.
But eventually it's done. Boots are on, I'm ready to go. I transfer things from one purse to another and head out. I walk a couple blocks and find a fun little pub and decide to eat dinner there. The host sits me at a table against a wall in a room with just a few tables. The other tables are filled and I'm definitely in NOT in a tucked away spot. But it's okay. I order a beer, I bbm some more. I take out notes I'd made about Shattered to consider.
While I sit there, I'm quite proud of myself, to be honest. I notice that at a table near me, there are two boys and a girl--they all look maybe 17 or so, but they're drinking so either they were 21 or had fakes. (Or I'm just really getting older and like to think that I look 21, so therefore real 21 year olds clearly look like teenagers still.) But all three of them are looking at me--not at once, at separate times. But it's obvious that something's been said about me and they're trying to be subtle.
I smile at them, instead of staring down into my lap like I really want to do. See, I'm making progress. Branching out. One of the boys strikes up a conversation, and here's how the rest of it goes down. (My thoughts, as always, are in purple)
Boy:
So what are you in town for?
Me:
The book festival.
Ugh, and here I thought I could pass as a college kid.
Do you guys go to UVA?
Boy:
Yeah. So, is your service taking as long as ours is? This place sucks!
Me:
Oh, I don't know. I just ordered. I got my--
HOLY MOTHER EFFING CRAP. I'M WEARING TWO DIFFERENT BOOTS.
Okay. Keep it together.
I'll just cross my ankles as close to the wall as I can. Nobody will notice.
beer pretty quickly.
Dear face, PLEASE stop heating up. I don't want to look like a tomato. Much less a tomato that doesn't know how to wear matching shoes.
(tries to look busy going through my notebook)
Dear boy, Please stop talking to me.
O.M.G. PLEASE don't anybody notice me.
The boy continues to make small talk. I continue trying to squeeze my feet magically through the wall. Their food arrives. My food arrives. They take FOREVER to finish eating. Clearly I wasn't going to get up and leave until they were gone. And even then it was gonna be hard to leave knowing that any of the other people might notice me.
They finally leave. I immediately ask the waiter for my check, chug the rest of my beer and smile at him--SO happy to be able to leave--when he brings my check. I reach in my purse for my wallet. And:
HOLY MOTHER EFFING CRAP. I HATE MY LIFE.
It.
Isn't.
There.
Yep, I'd left it in my other purse. All I have in this purse? FIVE DOLLARS.
I have to beg the waiter to let me go back to the hotel to get my wallet so I can pay for my meal.
So with my face blazing, two different boots dragging along the floor in shame, I walk back for my wallet. In my room, I grab my wallet and CLEARLY change into flip-flops. Then I go back to pay.
Most embarrassing night ever.
Oh, and to add insult to injury? Fast forward to the next day. I park a few blocks away from the festival. When I walk in, I see a guy all decked out in steampunk apparel. Turns out his name is Nick Valentino and he's selling his steampunk book, Thomas Riley. Nick's super friendly and in my mind, I'm like, hey--Derek and Alexandra are into punk genres, I'll get them some signed books! So I'm chatting with Nick and he's grabbing the books for me.
I reach into my purse to grab my wallet.
It.
Isn't.
There.
Again, I have to explain that I've left my wallet somewhere (this time in the other purse in my car) and run out to get it before I can pay.
And this, my friends, is WHY I GET NERVOUS TO DO THINGS BY MYSELF.
PS These are the two different boots I had on:
Happy friday! Hope you got a laugh =)
♥ me
