I got a referral for a wedding hair stylist and gave her a call…
Stylist: “So tell me a little about yourself.”
Me: “I am a sweaty, frizzy-haired Jew. I have lots of anxiety. I feel prettiest when I wear my hair down, but, due to my aforementioned sweat problem, that might not be an option for the wedding. But the idea of wearing my hair up is giving me anxiety, because I never wear my hair up for special occasions. And now I’m starting to sweat just thinking about it.”
Stylist: (laughs) “Ok…”
Me: “Sorry, was that not the information you were looking for?”
Stylist: “Well most people start by telling me their name.”
The kind of convo you’d only have with your best friend….
Best friend: “Your ring! Oh my god! Give me your hand right now (grabs my hand)– let me look closer. How many carats is that?!”
Me: “I don’t know…”
Best friend: “You don’t KNOW?! Oh, honey, you better find out. Who doesn’t know how many carats their ring is?!”
Me: “I don’t know…it’s his grandmother’s diamond, I’m not even sure he knows…”
Best friend: “Oh he KNOWS. Trust me. You go home tonight and you ask him.”
Me: “I’m not really concerned with that kind of stuff…”
Best friend: “Well, you’re wearing the ring so GET concerned, honey.”
Only this wasn’t my best friend. This was a random lady who lives in my building. Who I met ONCE.
This is why I don’t talk to people.
That moment before heading into a tutoring session when you check your reflection in a parked car window to make sure there are no remnants on your face of the Kind bar you just ate, when 5 seconds into staring at yourself you realize THERE IS A PERSON SITTING IN THE PARKED CAR. Right behind the window you basically have your face pressed against.
A few months ago a girl moved into my building– young, a teacher, seemingly normal and cool. Someone I would actually hang out with. We spoke in the lobby for a bit, exchanged apartment numbers, and said we’d see each other soon. I haven’t run into her since– until just now, in the elevator.
Girl: “Hey! How have you been?!”
Me: “Not much!”
And then our friendship ended.
Fair. And true.
But this is exactly the kind of hazardous situation I find myself in when I linger in society past sundown– two young people were having a perfectly lovely first date and I interrupted it, arms flailing, screaming, “Little Michael?!?! Is that YOU?!?!?”
Zero chance he got laid after that.
I’m never leaving the couch again.
Sorry, Little Michael.
(For interrupting your date. And for calling you “Little Michael.” Last night and in this post. Also, sorry about this post).
Me (in grocery store, to man stocking shelves): “Hi, I’m looking for Worcestershire sauce?”
Man: “Ok. But…um…I don’t work here…”
Me: “Oh! I’m sorry! It looks like you were stocking the shelves with candles…”
Man: “No I’m just looking for a green one…”
Me: “Oh…um…ok…I…yeah sorry.”
And then I stopped talking forever.