Tag Archives: social anxiety

“Someone Assaulted My Pregnant Wife!”*

*nope.

So here’s what actually happened.

Last week, I got into the elevator on the first floor, with 3 other adults and a 4-year-old kid. We all pressed our floors. Then the elevator stopped on floor 2, and a woman with a huge laundry cart got on. Fine, that’s allowed. But I would like to note that she entered the elevator somewhat aggressively, and essentially backed me into the far corner without so much as an “excuse me.” Technically still her right, but objectively pretty cunty.

Then, something strange happened with the elevator. When the woman got on at floor 2, all the floors we had previously pressed became unlit. So the woman, let’s call her Nasty McDouchecanoe, who was now standing directly in front of the buttons, barked, “Ok everyone just tell me their floors and I’ll hit them.” So, everyone did. Someone said 17, another said 20, another said 25, and I said 28.

She proceeded to hit floors 17, 20, 21 (presumably for herself), 25 and did not hit my request of 28.

So, thinking she simply didn’t hear me over the demons and firemonsters dancing in her head, I leaned forward from the time-out corner she had shoved me into, and attempted to press my floor.

When she saw my hand coming from behind and reaching for the buttons, she pushed it away, back towards my body, and hissed, “Back off, you can wait!”

Not knowing wtf was going on but assuming this woman was legit insane, I calmly said “Ok…” went back to my time-out, and stood there in silence. The elevator proceded to rise and go to everyone’s floor except mine, as she had not pressed my button nor was she permitting me to press it for myself, because apparently when I stepped into this elevator I had entered Gilead.

Everyone was silent and not really sure how to react, particularly with the 4-year-old kid there. A couple people looked at me, but mostly with sympathy, rather than what I wanted, which was either a gigantic “What an asshat!” eye roll or a punch to this woman’s vagina.

When the elevator stopped at 21, Nasty McDouchecanoe got off, and, over her shoulder, spat, “See, you still have plenty of time to get to 28.”

The doors closed and I was left in the elevator with one other woman. I calmly hit 28, now that I was back in the free world and allowed to do so, and took a deep breath. The woman looked at me awkwardly and said, “When is your due date? You look fantastic!”

She clearly felt sorry for me.

Again, not what I wanted– I would have preferred this woman save her compliment and instead put that energy toward tripping Nasty McDouche on her way out, but fine. At least she was being humane. I smiled, told her I was due in a month, and thanked her for her kind words. Then she got off on 25.

The bizarre incident was officially over and I had survived it with no real harm done, so what did I do once I was alone in the elevator?

I sobbed like a pregnant little bitch.

Yes, clearly hormones were at play here, but still– the amount and decibel of sobbing was batshit. I had clearly caught an insanity bug from Nasty McD, and there was simply no controlling the extreme emotional reaction I was having to what, in hindsight, was a pretty fucking minor event.

I tremble-sobbed my way into my apartment, and, once confined to the safety of my hibernation station, immediately texted Eric the following:

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Hey, here’s a tip! Don’t tell your husband that someone slapped you if no one slapped you.

Clearly I was distraught and wasn’t thinking through my words. Yes, this woman had pretty much “slapped my hand away” from the buttons, but if we’re going to get VERY literal about what happened, there was no actual SLAP. She pushed it away. Not gently, mind you. But nobody got slapped.

Too late.

Eric sent a series of concerned texts and then, when I didn’t answer fast enough (because the mucus-tears were dripping down my screen and preventing touch-typing, as somehow Apple has not yet developed the technology to keep up with my nervous breakdowns), he called.

I was still hysterical choke-sobbing, because sure. I told him the whole story between blowing snot into copious napkins, ending with “and then she slapped my hand away from the buttons and told me to back off.”

Again, that word “slapped.” Not QUITE in line with what happened. But then again, neither was my shitnado reaction.

Eric calmly said, “Ok, I’m calling management, and I’m coming home,” then hung up and did exactly that.

To be clear, this is NOT what I wanted.

I tried to text him to tell him to PLEASE not report this to our building’s management company, but it was too late.  He told me he reported it, that they were horrified, and that they were going to review the security tapes, find out who it was, and handle it.

I wanted to die.

Me: “Eric, seriously, I really don’t want management involved. This is getting blown out of proportion.”

Eric: “SOMEONE ASSAULTED MY PREGNANT WIFE!”

I closed my eyes, took a deep, snot-filled breath and PRAYED this was not the wording he used when he spoke to management, while at the same time fully recognizing that if he DID use those words, it was 100% justified and totally my fault because I literally relayed the information to him in the same way Sarah Huckabee Sanders holds a press conference.

Which is to say I lied.

Not intentionally, like Sarah Huckabee Sanders, but more inadvertently, because I don’t do words good, like Sean Spicer.

Regardless, semantics matter.

And unfortunately, when speaking, I’m not always so on-point. When writing, and given time to edit and revise, I can be fairly articulate, but even then I end up with phrases such as Nasty McDouchecanoe and words that aren’t words, like “cunty.”

Once Eric got home (because yes, he left work at 2pm to tend to a wife who got her feelings hurt, as he is a saint of epic proportions), I was a bit calmer (still crying a few more whimper-tears though, because I’m an adult with 2 masters degrees and my own business). I was able to explain to him what ACTUALLY happened versus what he was probably imagining happened based on my extremely shitty initial relaying of the story.

I then made Eric, god bless his definitely-regretting-marrying-me soul, call back the head of management (who is basically the nicest person on the planet, and who I will now forever have to avoid due to crippling embarrassment) and explain that no one is claiming assault of a pregnant woman. Yes, Nasty McD pushed my hand away. Yes, she prevented me from pressing the button to my floor, which I just kind of took for granted as my basic human right. Yes, she was extremely rude and yes, the incident clearly upset me and made me and everyone in the elevator extremely uncomfortable, but no, Mr. Management, we are not thinking of pressing charges or calling the cops and oh jesus christ what is happening and how is this my life?!

Mr. Management thanked us for clarifying (and luckily we were able to do so BEFORE he grabbed a tub of popcorn and reviewed the security tape, as he for sure would have laugh-choked once he viewed “the assault”). He also said that while it was not a crime per se, it was still an upsetting and unacceptable incident that should not have occurred. Therefore, the woman would be contacted and gently warned that her behavior had been reported and viewed on security footage, that what occured is not in line with the neighborly atmosphere they like to cultivate in their residencies, and to please consider this the next time she is interacting with her neighbors in the communal living spaces.

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So remember that post where I said I somehow manage to make enemies in every building I occupy? Well, add Nasty McD to the enemy list. Also mark this as #920183098219839382195 on my list of reasons why I am scared to leave the apartment or interact with humans in general.

But whatever, this woman was a huge asshole for NO reason, and a part of me is not sorry that there will be some kind of small consequence for her behavior (although let’s be honest, this woman is not going to give a FUCK when she gets that call from management…or, alternatively, she is outside my door right now with a shotgun.)

But yeah, overall, I definitely feel like that annoying Kindergartener who runs and tattles to the teacher instead of using her words to defend herself.

But let the record show: I did NOT want to run and tattle to management like a whiny little 5-year-old pussy.

I wanted to run and tattle to my husband like a giant 36-year-old pussy.

And that, I think we can all agree, was accomplished with accuracy.

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Getting Our Ducks in a Row

Last year, while on our annual family vacation in the Outer Banks (moment of silence to mourn the fact that we will be missing this year’s trip, which of course makes us sad but it’s obviously for a very good reason– so my vagina can be torn in half), Eric stumbled upon these two ducks in a novelty store.

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Not sure if I’ve mentioned this before (every third post), but Eric loves animals. Obsessed. The obsession is mostly focused on dogs, but he really does not discriminate. Just yesterday I was forced to watch a minutes-long video of a kangaroo on a golf course, sniffing a ball and then slinking away, which elicited a slightly amused chuckle from me, and a maniacal cackle-giggle from Eric, who couldn’t help but repeatedly yell, “I mean, just look at him hop! Look at him! Hoppin’ away like a little hoppin’ machine!”

So he came across these ducks last year and, as you can imagine, absolutely could not in any way control his excitement because a) THEY’RE DUCKS! and b) they happen to have our names. Without even thinking to look at the price tag he grabbed them and declared, “This probably goes without saying, but we need these.”

Now, sometimes I am wiling to be indulgent of this animal addiction, such as last week when I purchased this giraffe toilet paper holder for our bathroom and named it Jaben, after our South African safari guide, for no other reason than I knew it would make Eric smile and think of me with gratitude every time he sits on the pot, which is important in a marriage.

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Other times, such as when he purchased this Corgi welcome mat without my knowledge, IMG_0530.jpeg, I threaten to burn the product should it be anywhere in my direct line of sight (rug has since been moved from front door entrance to his side of the bed, halfway tucked under the bed frame. I can technically still see it when I use the bathroom or clean the bedroom (once a year) but placing his feet on that rug first thing every morning makes him so happy that I don’t quite have the heart to burn it, so it stays. For now.)

As for the ducks, I took one look and said, “We really don’t need more clutter in the apartment.” He stared back at me, expression blank, and then, after 30 seconds of careful contemplation, formed his astute counter-argument: “BUT THEY SAY OUR NAMES!”

I was not convinced, and reminded him of the concerted effort we had been putting into de-cluttering our tight living space, already occupied by a ceramic hedgehog, a camel carrying a dowry, three llamas (two from Abu Dhabi and one Peruvian, and may god have mercy on your soul if you can’t tell the difference), four elephant figurines, a life-sized corgi pillow, and the aforementioned corgi mat.

“Ok, ok, you’re right,” he conceded. So I gave him a warm smile and soft kiss on the cheek to show appreciation for his sacrifice, directly after which he walked up to the cashier and purchased both ducks.

So fine. Now we have these ducks.

But ever since bringing them home, something has bothered me about them (like, aside from the fact that we have the world’s most unnecessary wooden birds taking up our tight, NYC living space), and I haven’t been able to place my finger on it. Then yesterday, almost a year after purchase, I finally figured it out:

THEY’RE WEARING THE WRONG NAMES.

Yes, those were the name tags they were wearing in the store, aka the names the artist thought were accurate and appropriate for each duck. But if you look closely, you’ll see this was a classic mix up.

The one wearing the Emily tag is a short, stumpy, spry little yapper. Literally has NO LEGS. Its lips are open, chatting away, likely about something related to a dog walking by or an hours-long, in-depth retell of “the weirdest dream I had last night.” Eyes are open wide with wonder, like it can’t wait to discover what the day will bring– a kangaroo on a golf course? A corgi playing in a puddle? A squirrel having a good scratch? THE POSSIBILITIES ARE ENDLESS!

This duck is clearly Eric.

Meanwhile, who is this excitable little Eric duck yapping away to, and clearly being tuned out by? (And to be clear, it’s not a purposeful, spiteful tune-out–  this lanky duck is clearly involuntarily stuck in a thought-loop, berating itself for something embarrassing it did 12 years ago and wondering if the gaggle of geese who witnessed the transgression are still talking about it).

That’s right, this long, chicken-leg-limbed yet too-large-footed figure is clearly Emily duck, staring into the abyss, silent, minding its own business and probably confused about something. If you look closely, its dark, beady little shell-shocked eye screams inner panic attack and the stiff, craned neck says “Hi, I am uncomfortable.” This duck is also the color of pee, which more literally represents what I spend half my time needing to do.

So I switched the name tags and now all is right with the world.

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Best purchased we* ever made.

*we = really 100% Eric, against my will, but now that I’m amused by them, I will take half credit for their discovery and purchase because MARRIAGE.

 

As Usual, I’m Making New Friends Left and Right

We just moved to a new apartment building last week, and I kid you not, Eric already knows the name of every person who works here, from the 7 different doormen to the maintenance crew to the service entrance security guards. He passes them in the lobby and with a huge, happy-to-know-ya smile, says, “Hey, how’s it goin [insert worker’s first name here, because I sure as shit don’t know it]!”, as he is already everyone’s best friend and probably in some form of fantasy sports league with them, as he was with the doormen in our last building.

Me? I’ve interacted with one person. Unwillingly.

It happened in the gym this morning.

Me: <“exercising,” headphones on OBVIOUSLY, and generally minding my own business>

Guy: “Wow, look at you! You’re ready to pop!”

Me: “Well, not quite yet, but yes, end of August…”

Guy: “And you’re allowed to exercise? That doesn’t seem safe! You’re sure that’s safe?”

Me: “I’m on a back-supported bike made for seniors, cycling at level 1. I think I’ll be ok!”

Guy: “I don’t know, you’re making me nervous…”

Me: “Well, you’re making me uncomfortable, so I guess we’re even.”

Guy: < Silent. Shits self. >

So it’s safe to say Eric and I have comparable social skills.

The unfortunate thing is that I know the guy meant no harm, and yeah, dude, OF COURSE I’m making you nervous. You think this situation doesn’t make ME nervous every time I look in the mirror?!

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The fact that I am not straight up face-planting every time I stand is truly defying the laws of physics (I assume. Can’t actually quote any laws of physics.)

But sorry, man, I’m in the home stretch here and the hormones win. Between my rapidly expanding frontal load and a preexisting discomfort with strangers talking to/looking at/being near me, I’m in no mood. If my rascal pouch makes you nervous, that’s fine, but keep it to your damn self.

So yeah I’d say we have about one year in this building before I make so many enemies that it’s simply too uncomfortable to stay. Took me about two years in the old place, but pregnancy is going to speed up this timeline a bit.

But that’s perfectly fine– since college, I’ve established a pattern of living in a place only JUST long enough to serve my needs and then moving out right before EVERYONE writes me off as the unfriendly, awkward weirdo-tenant, and it’s totally worked out for me so far.

Meanwhile, as I type this, Eric is enthusiastically shaking hands and exchanging “good-to-meet-ya!” pleasantries with yet another building occupant.

A corgi.

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Shit. We can never move.

 

 

This Isn’t Even Embarrassing It’s Just My Life

As I’m leaving an hour-long tutoring session…

Kid (to her mom): “Mom, you always say I have to take those off (points to nape of my neck) but Miss Emily didn’t!!”

Me (confused): “Wait, what?”

Parent: “Something tells me Miss Emily did not know it was there. And I was going to try to let her leave without embarrassing her, but I guess that’s not happening now.” (opens drawer, grabs scissors, cuts this off my sweater and hands it to me):

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Like a Robot

There is an old cantankerous man who lives in our building, and every time he walks into the elevator and sees me on my phone (which is always), he makes a snide comment about it. Normally I just smile awkwardly and sort of ignore, but today I decided to defend myself.

Old man: “Those things are ruining people. Nobody talks to each other anymore.”

Me: “Yes, you always say that to me.”

Old man: “Well, it’s true. How’s anyone supposed to meet if they’re always looking at their phone?”

Me: “Actually, I met my husband on my phone.”

Old man: “You mean you were talking on the phone when you met him?”

Me: “No, I literally found him BECAUSE OF my phone. I was in an elevator like this one, and instead of talking to people around me, I was scrolling through a dating app. I came across his profile, read it, and I liked it, so I connected with him and we started talking.”

Old man: “I see…”

Me: “Right, so, if I hadn’t been looking at my phone, if I had been talking to people around me instead, as you always say I should be doing, then I wouldn’t have found my husband.”

Old man (long pause): “Well, young lady, I guess that’s a good point.”

Me (smiling, resisting the urge to literally pat myself on the back): “Thank you.”

(We both step out of the elevator and into the lobby) 

Doorman: “Hey there, Eddie!”

Old man: “The whole world’s gone to shit. This girl met her husband INSIDE A PHONE! Like a ROBOT!”

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The Difference Between Me and Eric

Eric: “The woman breeding our future puppy was so nice when I spoke to her on the phone, and she really just breeds for the love of it– in fact, once the dog is ours she wants us to keep her updated on how he’s doing, because she cares that much about each of her pups, she just likes to know what they’re up to. How nice is that?”

Me: “You mean we have to keep talking to her?”

Conditions for Eloquence

I gave a speech at a friend’s rehearsal dinner last weekend and someone came up to me after and said, “You are an extremely eloquent speaker.” And it got me thinking, you know what, yeah, person I don’t know at all but who is now my new best friend, when it comes to verbal communication, I am extremely eloquent!

….as long as I have an entire 16-size-font, double spaced script in front of me (rehearsed for a minimum of three weeks and approved by no less than five trusted individuals), have at least one glass of wine but no more than three in my system, I am not interrupted once, it’s neither too hot nor too cold in the room, there are zero weird noises, no one looks at me funny, I’m not hungry, the lighting is friendly, I am feeling good about my outfit, my acne is under control, I’m not PMSing, and I remembered to take my Prozac.

Otherwise when I talk it’s this:

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