Confessions of a (Recovering) Shy Woman

Some of you have seen my status updates referring to an elusive Bartender.

Some of you have witnessed my adventures (or, rather, lack thereof) with this elusive Bartender boy.

Now that a respectable mourning period has passed, now that the adventure is over, the case is closed, the end to the saga has come and gone, it is time that I finally disclose the mysteries of my heart, the nonsensical thoughts in my head and my asinine (and failed) attempts to do just one simple thing – TALK TO THE GUY. My hope is that you, Gentle Reader, will be able to learn from my mistakes and, in turn, REMIND me to act on what I’ve supposedly learned from my mistakes. ‘Cuz sometimes a girl needs a friendly nudge, a swift kick in the arse, or a smack upside the head in order to get the f@#$ over herself and get the f@#$ over IT.

About 8-10 months ago (God, that’s a painfully long time in the world of crushing), I found myself frequenting a club in San Francisco, CA. There is nothing particularly special about this club; it’s definitely not the hottest spot, the “place to be,” the club with the most eye candy or the best DJs. This club, however, had a one up on its competition. This club literally had one thing that made it MY place to be. What was the club’s “secret sauce?” Simple. There was a HOT BARTENDER BOY.

Now, if you know me, you know that I don’t drink. I am always designated driver. Even on my own freakin’ birthday, I’m driving my drunk friends home. Yeah – basically, everybody wants to party with me, Chauffeur Extraordinaire. But, no joke, I actually wanted to develop a drinking habit just so I could find some reason to talk to this Bartender. I found myself at this club almost every weekend. I would dance near the bar. I would watch him from across the bar, sometimes from across the room. I stared so hard I’m surprised I didn’t bore holes through his beautiful head. I stared so much I’m surprised he didn’t catch the deranged (but hopeful) look in my eyes more often. He probably thought I just “happened” to be scanning the crowd, I just “happened” to be looking over at him. (WTF – But for the millionth time in one night?!? Please tell me guys aren’t really this dense.) My friends tried. They tried to encourage me – they gave me pep talks, words of advice, counsel, mental and emotional support; they grudgingly returned with me to this club week after week, even though the music was getting old and so was my schoolgirl crush. Sadly, I couldn’t progress past the staring and the crushing. I was petrified. Frightened. Frozen. During the week, I would imagine having the courage to speak to him, all the magical conversations we would have; when Friday or Saturday night came, I would freeze and resort to the staring and the sighs from across the bar, across the room. I would dance my heart out, but my feet wouldn’t move towards him. I couldn’t even be within three feet of the bar without completely freaking out. Every time I tried, it was as if I had touched a too hot tea kettle; I would jump back, retreat, tail between my legs.

Weeks passed. Months passed. Half a year passed. What was once funny was now pathetic. My friends were on the verge of taking measures into their own hands. Their encouraging words turned into threats. What was wrong with me?! What was my problem!?

Me. The problem was – the problem is – me. I am terribly, horrible, pitifully shy. Sigh.

There. Now the truth is out there. Feel free to bust me upside the head or smack me something silly the next time you see me.

“But, Nancy, WTF. How old are you?!”
“But, Nancy, you’re so,…LOUD! And friendly! And talkative! What do you mean, you’re shy?”
“But, Nancy, come ON. What have you got to lose with some guy you may never see again?!”
“But, Nancy, come ON. He can’t be THAT hot. Whatever.”

First of all, YES, he can be THAT hot.

Second, I’ve already run through every reason why, every scenario, every solution, every antidote, every possible kind of “help” to this “problem” of mine and, still, nothing (yet) has been able to get my feet to budge, my mouth to move. I’m still frozen.

Third, this argument about age – it doesn’t help. So shut up.

Now, the point of sharing all this is not so that I can rehash the past and figure out what went wrong and how I can fix it. Screw it. I’ve made a choice: This crush is OVER. The End. I’ve said my silent good-byes to the Bartender, I’ve closed a chapter to a book never written, I’ve shut the door, I’ve moved on. Oh – and the Bartender quit so, really, I can’t do anything about it anyway.

And let's set aside the fact that, really, I have no business crushing on this Bartender boy. (I know, I know. Sigh.) That's another story for another day.

The point of sharing all this is to help that Shy Girl, or Shy Guy, take those tiny little steps – whether it’s to confront his/her own personal Bartenders or Demons or Crushes or whomever, whatever. Because I realized, through all these months of angst and having no balls (well, figuratively speaking, that is) to do what I wanted to do, being painfully shy is not just some “cute little trait” that some of us are born with. To be as shy as I am, to the point where people can’t tell if I am a Queen Bee Bitch or just really weird and oblivious, there is probably some hidden issue you’ve gotta get resolved and be FREE of. I figured out what my issue (or issues) were and, since my discovery, I’ve been praying and working it out to be FREE of them ("thawing myself out," if you will) so that, the next time I see some Hot Bartender Boy type or some Hot Bartender Boy type sees me (okay, obviously, he doesn’t have to be a bartender and he likely won’t be), I won’t treat him like he’s some untouchable king among men. Good Lawd. The guy is just a guy. I need to stop trippin’ and start thinking straighter. In the meantime, here are some other helpful lessons I learned along the way:

1) That other person is JUST A PERSON. Just like me, just like you. Stop idolizing.
2) Crushing might seem fun but, it’s NOT. If a crush lasts more than a couple weeks, you need to get over it. That’s all there is to it. Anything more than a couple weeks, you’re borderline obsessing. And that ain’t cute.
3) Crushing is non-committal so, if you realize that you have issues with commitment, deal with it. Don’t sweep that s@#$ under the rug.
4) Don’t beat yourself up. If you’re still chicken s@#$ and your friends are giving you s@#$, forgive yourself. The more you focus on all your flaws, the worse the problem SEEM to be.
5) Don’t let that other person define you. You are who you are, NOT because of how hot your crush is, how many guys/girls like you, who does or does not want you but, BECAUSE you are simply wonderful and wonderfully created. And Somebody out there loves you. If that other person doesn’t see it, that’s ok. Move on.
6) If everything seems blown out of proportion - including this crush, your feelings, your failures and your incompetence - just remember to maintain perspective. You WILL get over it. You just have to make that choice.
7) If you really, really can’t get the courage to talk to that other person and you really, really believe you are supposed to and you really, really have to - drinking alcohol works. Just don’t get stupid, drunk - or drunk, stupid.

Okay, so Lesson #7 should be performed under strict direction, observation, assistance and with the utmost caution. And, in case you didn’t get it, I was KIDDING.

Anyway. Hope this helped somebody out there. If anything, I hope it gave somebody a laugh. I think it was a little therapeutic for me, documenting this drama.

Peace out. 

 

Warning: Graphic Entry. Near-death experiences are no joke, man.

So, my "monthly visitor" came and went.

Initially, nothing really unusual. Some of the typical abdominal discomfort but, bearable.

Halfway through the day that my "Monthly Visitor" first came a-knockin, the discomfort gradually increases to a series of annoying pangs. Ummm, yes, Monthly Visitor, I know that you're here. No need to keep knockin'. After lunch, I dial into a conference call at work and, fifteen minutes into the call, it starts to feel as if Monthly Visitor is not only knocking on my abdomen, Monthly Visitor is trying to beat and kick the bloody (no pun intended) door down. I notice that, although I am wearing a hoodie and sweats (yes, this is how I roll to work) and the warm California sunshine is streaming into my office, I am cold and I start to shiver. The discomfort-turned-annoyance-turned pain in my stomach and abdomen is increasing in intensity and I can't sit down any longer. I start to feel like I am caught in the movie "Aliens" and some shrieking, hissing, slime-covered monstrosity of a foreign being is going to tear, claw and burst its way out of my abdomen in slow motion. I stand up. No good. I sit down. No good. I'm cold. I'm sweating. I'm shivering. I start to feel nauseated. At this point, I am on the verge of yelling, "SHUT THE F@#$ UP I AM DYING HERE!" Probably not a very diplomatic way to end a business call. I stand up. I sit down. Would be wrong of me to simply hang up on the other participants? Would it be just completely unprofessional to vomit into the wastebasket in my office? I stand up. "Um,..I'm sorry, I have another meeting right now, I'll follow up over email. Thank you! Bye." I throw my headset, hightail it to the women's restroom and then throw myself at the toilet.

[Warning: This entry gets a lil' more graphic. You can quit while you're ahead or be a brave soul and continue reading,...but don't say I didn't warn you.]

As I sit on the toilet, still shivering and now short of breath, I contemplate how I am going to, er, expel from both my upper and lower body orifices. Where's a freakin' bucket when I need one? Which mess would be easier to clean up from the bathroom floor? Either way, the cleaning staff is going to hate me. I manage to expel a bit from the "baja" region but, the pain, chills and nausea only worsen. I turn around and shove my fingers down my throat, hoping to make myself vomit because the nausea is so unbearable. Nada. I sit back on the toilet. I want to lie down but I can't even get up so I remain seated on the toilet, hanging onto the rail for dear life, wondering why my abdomen is pulsing, my heart is racing and my body is still shivering. Why the f@#$ is my body doing and feeling things it's not supposed to, damnit?!? I hear people enter and exit the women's restroom and wonder if any of them have endured this kind of pain before. Could this be what childbirth is like? OMG, am I having a baby? Is it another immaculate conception? Finally, I manage to pull my pants up and crawl to the bathroom floor. I lie there in fetal position, wondering if I am going to die, right here, right now. Oh Lord, I wanted a more noble death than this but, at this point, I'll take anything to end the pain. I must have been locked in the bathroom stall for about half an hour when I decide that I should probably request assistance and attempt to save my life. Fortunately, the woman who responds to my feeble plea for help is a teammate. She calls the volunteer emergency response team at work and I think I begin to see a light at the end of the tunnel. Suddenly, I experience a moment of clarity. WAIT. Who is responding to her call? Are women going to respond, or is the emergency response team going to send a bunch of guys? Oh dear God, please tell me they have the common sense to send some women to my rescue. A few minutes pass. I hear commotion outside the bathroom. The door opens.

Two guys walk in. Two freakin' guys.

F@#$ me.

I quickly assess my physical state. Pants on - check. Shirt on - check. Tampon on - er, negative, ma'am. Tampon is near me, never made it to its rightful station. S@#%. Not only am I an undignified mess on the bathroom floor, I might be a bloody undignified mess on the bathroom floor.

One of the men hovers over me and begins to question me, check my vital signs. Then a game of "20 too much information/personal questions which I do not care to answer" ensues.

Hovering male: Tell me what happened.
Me: Well, I started my period this morning and,...
Hovering male: Is your period pretty regular?
Me: Um, I think so.
Hovering male: When was the last time you had your period?
Me: About a month ago.
Hovering male: Are you pregnant?
Me: Um, NO.
Hovering male: Are you sure?
Me: Um, YES.
Hovering male: Is there any chance,...
Me: Look. If I'm pregnant, then it's another immaculate conception.
[Awkward pause]

The Two Hovering Men ask me whether I'd like to go to the hospital. I'm already an undignified mess on the floor, and now they're going to send even more men to hover over me and interrogate me?! Surely, surely, after assessing my condition, these Two Hovering Men will have the common sense and common decency to request and send in some women. And, well, even if an infantry of men storm in, I decide that my health is probably worth more than my dignity so, I give them the green light to call an ambulance. A few minutes pass. I again hear commotion outside the bathroom door.

Five men enter. Five. Freakin'. Men. Five. F@#$itty F@#$ F@#$.

And these Five Hovering Men + Two Hovering Men = 1 absolutely mortified Nancy.

Immediately, the poking, prodding and interrogating ensues. They basically want to know three things:
1) What happened?
2) The "normal" state of my menstrual cycle
3) Whether or not I am having sex and, therefore, potentially pregnant

Granted, what they are asking makes sense in my condition. But, come on fellas, do each of you really need to hear it from me? Do you think I'll somehow tell a different version every time you ask me? Can't y'all just pay attention while I tell the story just once? Y'know, I've never participated in speed dating activities but, I imagine this is what it must feel like - a painful, awkward process of elimination. Only, in this case, I am the one being pinned against the wall and scrutinized. Sigh.

A couple of the hovering men convince me to go to the hospital to get tested. Can't hurt, right? The problem is, they want to carry me out on a stretcher. What the,...? Somebody please tell me to smile because I am on Candid Camera. S@#$. By this time, I am actually feeling 90% better and am positive I can walk. I beg them to let me walk but, they don't want to risk me collapsing. As they lift me onto the stretcher, I ask if they were able to grab my belongings. To my (short-lived) pleasure, a woman (OMG, a woman! Where the hell was she when I most needed her?!) enters and hands me the most important item - the tampon that had been lying on the floor next to me. Wow. Gee. Thanks. Could you be any more conspicuous? Why don't we broadcast my condition over a megaphone and, while you're at it, tape the tampon to my forehead and hang my underwear on a flagpole? I honestly do not understand how these Hovering Men were able to keep faces straight, 'cuz you know I was somebody's "Joke of the Day" at happy hour that night. Ugh.

Anyway, three hours later, I am released from the hospital. Of course, they weren't able to determine what happened to me but, thankfully, I feel 100% better. As my wonderful and wonderfully patient brother (he waited with me all that time in the hospital, bless his heart) drove me back to work, I pondered the significance of the situation. Was there a meaning, a purpose, to all of this? Was there a message for me, some lesson I needed to learn?

Indeed, there was.

A single thought repeated itself over and over in my mind throughout the entire ordeal - from the moment I crawled to the bathroom floor, even while I lay in fetal position, shivering and sick to my stomach, all the way through to the gathering of the Hovering Men Inqusition and the ridiculous ride on the stretcher. I kept thinking to myself, "I love being a woman. I love being a woman. I love being a woman. Goddamnit, I love being a woman. I really love being a woman."

Y'know, I don't care if that sounds foolish in light of everything I experienced that day. I don't even care if I sound like some delusional, brainwashed feminazi. For all the pain, vulnerablity, moments of weakness, heartbreaks, heartaches, pains and aches and even monthly menstrual menaces we women have to endure, I absolutely, wholeheartedly, unabashedly love being a woman. I love being a woman. There is nothing like it in this entire world. Nothing. Now, some of you might be thankful this is true. I, on the other hand, am truly thankful that I am a woman. The pain is worth it. The monthly madness is worth it. It is completely, entirely worth it. There are experiences, treasures, gifts that God has given us, that no man will ever have or understand. I don't care if we are accused (often, wrongly so) of being manipulative, conniving, unreasonable, illogical, demanding, weak, vulnerable, petty, backstabbing, "catty." Whatever. I say we women embrace it all - the good, the bad and the ugly. Because women are also beautiful, lovely, warm, loving, intuitive, understanding, encouraging, bold, daring, courageous, different, diverse. We notice the little things, we throw the best surprise birthday parties, everybody wants to participate in ladies' night out (especially the fellas, ha!), we know when to simply listen, we know exactly what to say and when to say it, we have the gift and ability to carry life within us, there is an inner strength in each of us and a fighting courage that keeps us keepin' on, we understand even when things don't seem to make any sense. There is just something all too wonderful and all too beautiful about being a woman that I can't describe with mere words. It is that "je ne sais quoi" which nobody can place, nobody can label. All I know is that, once God created woman, He must have seen that it was good, that it was very good.

And it is good to be a woman. So, so, so good.