What It's Like To Be Shy

At the coffee shop:

I dress anonymously. I avoid color and fashion. Blue jeans and a dark (but not too dark) shirt.

I sit in the corner and face the window. I used to face the wall but one of my friends (all three and a half of them) told me it makes me look a bit crazy and kept me from blending in.

I scan the crowd but avoid eye contact. In front, I like to find a woman whose hair style attracts me (again, from the back) and imagine that on the dark side of the moon, she has a face with a beauty unique to my quirky aesthetic sense. Sometimes she turns and shatters the illusion, but more often than not, all I ever get is her ear lobe and the curve of her chin.

At the bookstore:

I head first for the magazine rack, but my time here is short, catching up on the latest computer news and reviews. Most of my time is spent among the Literature shelves, particularly the New Fiction section.

Some recommend meeting women in the grocery store but that seems wrong to me. How much can you learn about a person based on vegetables, meats, and starches? I find the bookstore much more telling. I mean if I see a woman smelling the rind of a cantaloupe, what does that tell me, that she likes fresh fruit? But if I see a woman flipping through Sylvia Plath, I know she's hurting something bad. If she's reading Jane Austin, I'm thinking she's probably got impossibly high standards. Jack Kerouac tells me she's probably too bohemian for me and Toni Morrison that she's too smart for me. And on and on. Much more informative.

Of course, being as shy as I am, all I ever do is watch. . .or what's the more modern word for it? I lurk, and if I see a woman reading Douglas Coupland or Michael Chabon I'll just dream about what might be if I had the bravado and the lines and the looks.

In my dreams:

I'm taller and better looking. I dress better because I know how to dress better. I'm smooth and suave. I have women at hello.

I had a phase where I dated casually and widely. I unintentionally stole a couple girlfriends from their boyfriends though I didn't know it at the time. However, I am now past all that exploration because I have found the love of my life. Warm, witty, sharp, and in possession of natural, effortless beauty.

We work at our relationship. We do our best to fight fair. We agree to never hold grudges and we do our best not to.

I enjoy spoiling my love with style and surprise. I send her random, gooey text messages while she is at work, things like, "all you ever have to be is you and I'll fall in love over and over again." I imagine her reading those messages in the middle of a meeting. I imagine her hiding her smile behind her hand, pretending to cough. After the meeting is over she shows the message to her girlfriends and they laugh while wondering why their boyfriends aren't as wildly romantic.

She finds surprising ways to return my favors. She sneaks a secret cup of pudding into my lunch bag. She draws a heart on the back side of my spoon so I don't notice it until one of my coworkers points it out. He laughs at me just as her coworkers laughed at her but he laughs for a different reason, though deep down inside where he'll never admit it, he laughs for the same reason.

In a group (say at a staff meeting):

People are often surprised at my insight and willingness to speak up. They think that because I am soft-spoken and reserved one on one that I would be more so in a formal group setting.

What they don't understand is that it's the personal part of personal interaction that I find acutely uncomfortable. Speaking in front of a crowd is easy because in a group, people become anonymous, impersonal, other. And when someone from the group responds to what I say, they are responding to the idea presented not to me, and that makes me feel safe.

I sometimes confuse people who, after a meeting where I may have been especially vocal, come up to me, ask me if I would be interested in discussing my ideas further with them, perhaps over lunch, and I decline because that's just too much.

Perhaps I miss out on promotions this way, and I'll admit that it's frustrating to watch people with an abundance of social skills but a dearth of intelligence work their way up the pay scale, finally settling in a position where their ignorance can flourish.

At the salon:

Please, please, just cut my hair. Don't ask me how my day has been. Don't ask me what I do for work or for fun. Don't ask me if I've seen any good movies. Don't ask me about the latest reality show.

Just ask me how I want my hair done (short and thinned out), ask about my sideburns if you must (just even them out), but overall, just let your scissors do the talking and I promise tip in return.

Peacemaker at War

He was tired but where does the peacemaker go when at war within himself? A peacemaker. Numerous personality tests had confirmed what he already knew about himself. He despised conflict, tension, strife and did his best to mend fences, to negotiate compromises, to build bridges when necessary - all to maintain some sense of, not necessarily order but calm. Keep things copacetic, was his motto.

Normally he was fine with his role in life - deep down, he harbored a kind of secret pride for it - but lately things had just gotten out of hand. In his mind, it was one thing to be there for the novel solution, the unseen middle way, but lately it's been the same damn conflict between the same damn coworkers and the solution was the same every time. It was just a matter of making sure the one listened to and heard what the other person was saying rather than letting them develop counter-arguments while ignoring the other. He'd spend a moment listening to both sides and when it was clear that the two were stuck circling one another with one-tracked arguments, he would step in, summarize the view of each to the other and remind them that they'd been there before.

Before the Storm

It was Thursday night, date night. Married for seven years, they credited these Thursday nights as their saving grace when asked by friends how she and Simon were able to keep their marriage together. Tonight they had reservations for sushi, a party of four. They were meeting up with Joan and Harry, a couple they had set up, the only one of their pairings that amounted to anything. Joan and Harry had been seeing one another for a year now and this dinner was a kind of celebration and a kind of thank you. The sushi was on them.
Dinner was at seven thirty and it was already six fifty - still enough time to get there on time, but just enough. She checked her makeup again, the third time in the last ten minutes, and as she had done before, she took a step back and smiled as she admired the dress she had found not two days ago at her favorite vintage clothing store - a classic silhouette, probably from the fifties, whose style had become in vogue once again. It was a step up from her normally more reserved, unassuming style and while she was modest to a fault around others, she held a kind of private pride and joy at her find. A simple string of pearls around her neck would have been perfect, but even if she had owned such a luxury, she would not have worn them - that would just be too much, a toe beyond the line of what was called for tonight.
At ten after seven she called ahead to her friends, explaining that Steven was running late and that there was no way they could make the seven thirty reservation. Joan thanked her for the call, said they would see if the time could be moved and that they'd see them as soon as they could get there. Normally not one for anger, she nevertheless could feel the tension torqued in opposite directions by anxiety and anticipation, compounded by her preference for promptness, by his habitual tardiness. She didn't want a fight to spoil the night so she did her best to contain herself.

Arguments for Love

Is it true? Does love - true, pure, divine - really exist? Is it really possible that two people would be so vested in the well being of another that they would place this other person's happiness before their own? Does that really happen or have we been taken in by fairy tales. Or is it worse than that? Have we, like countless losers at the lottery, purchased our token in hopes of winning that grand, shining prize? For perhaps it is true that love exists but it is sought after over insurmountable, otherwise impossible odds. But we play because we must, because we were made to play. It is inextricably intertwined in our DNA.

If suffering is the most profound argument against the existence of a good and loving deity, then love is the most sublime argument against atheism.

Bill met Sarah at a small, independently owned coffee shop near his home. She was at the condiment bar sprinkling hazelnut on her latte and he was waiting to grab a cover for his grande drip coffee (black). Perhaps the grains had lodged themselves in the pores, perhaps humidity had caused them to clump in the container but for whatever reason Sarah was unable to get the hazelnut shaker to produce. Bill, not one for waiting, said excuse me while reaching in front of Sarah towards the lids.

Family Cancer

There are many ideas circulating about what causes cancer. Some of the consensus seems to indicate that cancer cells are regular cells that have gone wrong somehow. Some of the latest research in this regard seems to indicate that these wayward cells originate as repair cells, going in to mend a broken part of the body but the fix goes awry and the cell that was meant to heal changes somehow into something sinister and slow and lethal.




Daniel not only meant to apologize to his wife for forgetting their anniversary when he brought that bouquet of flowers home with him that Friday afternoon, he also bought them as a way to soften the blow of the bad news he had to deliver.

Theirs had become a life of consistency, of predictable patterns. It was a peaceful, harmonious sort of rhythm - a pattern honed through years of fitful trial and error. In her mind, what kept their life from devolving into a drone-like repetition were the yearly milestones, birthdays, holidays, and company parties, that punctuated the everyday routine. She looked forward to these interruptions. She anticipated the wrestling over little details like what gift to buy, what food to make, what dress to wear.

Her favorite of these yearly celebrations was their anniversary. Though she never spoke of it, she saw it as the high point of the year not because the date in June neatly bisected the year in two but because of all that it represented. Though it wasn't always harmonious or easy, she truly cherished the life they had built together. To her, their anniversary was a time to remember, to savor, to memorialize again their commitment to one another.

For all that it meant to her, their anniversaries were usually a simple affair. Dinner, a walk in the park or a scenic drive, long conversations, remembrances, a chance to laugh over charged arguments that they now saw as being about nothing, a chance to forgive. These nights would end in passionate consummation, sometimes slow and tender, sometimes ravenous and hungry, always satisfying.

Then for the first time, he had forgotten. He dropped the ball and life for her felt out of balance. That year their anniversary fell on a Tuesday. She gave him until Thursday night to realize his mistake and this gave her two days to plan on how to remind him.




Daniel had other things on his mind. He too loved celebrating their anniversary but this week his mind had been elsewhere, wrapped up in weightier matters. His problems began the week before. He had been in for his yearly physical last Monday. His doctor's office called on Wednesday morning asking him to come in for a few more tests. Probably nothing, they said. Thursday afternoon the office called again. This time his doctor was on the phone. He asked him if he was sitting down, to take a seat if he was standing.



On weeknights, she always arrived home first so, domestic as it sounds, she made dinner. He, in return, would cook through the weekend. That Thursday night as part of her plan, she prepared a simple salad. She placed chopped, rinsed lettuce in a large glass bowl in the center of the table. Beside the bowl she placed Italian dressing (his) and Ranch (hers). It was a very simple salad, no croutons, no onions, no olives. Not even a sprinkling of cheese or of fresh ground pepper. Just the lettuce.

He came in wet from the rain. She could tell it had been a hard day for him at the office by the way he dropped his bag, the way he let his shoes drop as he took them off instead of neatly laying them down. "Good," she thought.

Mourning

After her husband died, she hoped to die of a broken heart but death was not so accommodating. They had been married for forty three years. They had no children by choice.

For twenty-two years of their marriage he had been a pastor of a church whose congregation grew from twelve to about a hundred within its first year. Before their five year anniversary it swelled to an average attendance hovering around the eight hundred mark and they had a membership roster of over six hundred. By the time he left a weekly average of five or six thousand was not uncommon. On Christmas and Easter they often surpassed the ten thousand mark.

Alone in the kitchen of their modest, two floor, two bedroom house she holds a cup of coffee with both hands. The heat from the freshly poured serving approaches but never quite reaches the threshold of pain. She feels the warmth radiate through her fingers and palms. She looks out the window and sees morning light up the suburb. It's the heart of summer and she thinks, "this is a season for life, not death, for joy, not mourning. But we have no say in these matters."

She raises the cup to her lips, blows over the surface then takes a sip. She can't taste the coffee through the burn. She lowers it back down onto the saucer and waits for the coffee to cool.

Ingrate

There are lots of stories about people who had brushes with death who, because of that brush, went on to dramatically change their lives - reordering priorities, usually putting people in front of product rather than the other way around.

Donald wasn't one of them. Oh, he had that dance with death all right. One day on the production line he just keeled over. He worked in a more isolated section so if Phil hadn't been taking a shortcut back to his office and if Phil hadn't radioed Andy who knew CPR and who just happened to be in the building whereas he was normally out on the road, Donald would have died there in front of his assembly machine.

The paramedics arrived in minutes. CPR isn't exactly hard labor but ten minutes takes its toll. Andy was starting to cramp up just as the EMTs took over. They asked quick-fire questions and went straight for their defibrillator paddles. After the fourth shock through the chest they found a pulse and whisked Donald to the nearest trauma center where, after angioplasty, counseling, and physical therapy (less than four days total), he was back home for a week then back on the job albeit at a slower, light duty pace. The wonders of modern medical science.

While he was still recovering in the hospital, Donald was visited by friends from work and from the bar. Phil and Andy came by and told him about the string of coincides that, all the medical personnel involved agreed, saved his life. Donald smiled and laughed and thanked them all around.

Stories abound involving deep friendships made through such lifesaving partnerships. This isn't one of them. Donald and Phil and Andy never spoke much before the incident and once back at work the most they did was to wave at one another in passing.

Back at work, they put him at a desk arranging invoices by dates and then alphabetically. His doctor had him on light duty for three months which kept him from his seat at the assembly line.