Often people misinterpret social anxiety. You're either an asshole or your ill-equipped to handle life as an adult. I've teetered between both.

People who meet me often ask how I can even consider myself socially awkward or...gasp...a person with social anxiety disorder. Well, I shall share an ancient secret with you...they may call it liquid courage, I call it social lubricant.

I never like to use it as a crutch, but let me know the last time you met me and thought "Wow, I'm sure she is just as interesting sober." Yup, sad, but true. True not because I don't have these interesting stories and amazing qualities in my body, true because I'm scared as all hell to share them with people.

Social lubricant allows me to be larger than me. And like I said, it isn't crutch. Catch me on the right time and I will tell you more truths about your life and mine than you ever wanted to know. Hell, I will probably tell you more about your mom than that she reads "Fifty Shades of Grey". (Trust me, she is an interesting lady and you should appreciate that!)

At any rate, someone recently showed me this video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BRUS6QBiViQ&feature=fvwbrel

This killed me in so many ways. I am a crier, disclaimer. And I am always sympathetic to someone who thinks they are as pathetically awkward as me, but this really struck me. In fact, I think the part that really got me was when Royce analyzed how good he was (aka up there with Anthony "unibrowsexyhashtag" Davis, etc.) but realized he would NEVER be drafted like that because of his 'condition.' I put it in quotation marks because many people with anxiety disorders do not feel like others understand them or consider it a true disorder.

I get it. And that comment, as insignificant as it sounds, resounded with me. Perhaps because I followed college hoops or because I have an appreciation for human grooming. Either way, it stuck. White hit the nail on the head. No matter how good you are at something, it doesn't matter. If you aren't marketable, brandable or personable, you aren't necessarily worth the bargain.

Well here is the rub: Some people are smart and have pure skill, but they aren't genius public speakers or super confident enough to sell themselves. Forget about the plane rides for a second. This kid cannot even be confident enough in himself to know he is the real deal. And he is. That is something that doesn't fly in the NBA and a lot of other places. Trust me, I know.

I can't interview worth a shit, and I KNOW I've lost job opportunities because of my anxiety. It KILLS me because I know im capable and super smart....and most of all, dedicated! Just because I can't sell you a bill of goods about myself doesn't mean you should not hire me. But one thing I did learn about this video is that part of growing up is getting over the anxiety. Sure, it doesn't happen all pretty like everyone else. We don't go to a college public speaking course and see that our grade is 80% based on the speech we give about whether we want Chick-fil-a on campus or not. In fact, we'd rather wish a fatal illness on ourselves than stand up and give that speech....even though it is worth a fraction of our grade, and even less of a fraction of our time in the grand scheme of things. And it won't heal our ailing family members or our sad friends....we just dont even want to do it. Many people see that as immature and selfish. They have no idea. I am not cool, never thought I was, and a goddamned school speech would never change that. It DOESNT MATTER! It is anxiety. You don't know when it will happen or where it comes from. The important part is you know it interferes with your success and makes you look less than.

Kudos to Royce White for saying "Fuck you, anxiety! I have the talent and know how to give this  a try." I will never be in that public of an arena, but this gives me hope. I will never ever again compare myself to the Anthony Davis' of the job search world. I have something awesome and talented to offer. If the world isn't ready for it now, we BOTH can work on it.

I will never give up being a perfectionist and I want to be outgoing and be the cream of the crop, but if this kid can attempt to do it, so can I!

From what I can only characterize as the earliest part of cognitive growing process, I remember the concept of music – and particularly, I remember my dad.

My dad – a drummer by ‘trade,’ if trade means a high school past time and secret love interest – always had the most special connection with music.  I can say that I didn’t always understand it, but as I grew up, I found that perhaps I had been infected with the bug.

I remember my dad, whether it was next to his record player or his five-disk changer (but always with the largest headphones you’ve seen this side of Dr. Dre’s Beats), sitting in the corner, in the dark listening to music as far up as the volume would go. (Insert Spinal Tap eleven joke here).

That’s when my mom would say, “Oh Danny’s having one of his concerts again.” As if air quotes and eye rolls always accompanied the word “concerts”. I guess when I was little I didn’t fully understand why he did it or why it was a weird thing. It just was.  And this was despite the fact that when I was a wee babe, I would sit with him sometimes, in my mini rocking chair, and listen to the music. I’d rock so hard, I swear there were permanent creases in the carpet. He’d even quiz me on the music he was listening to. And perhaps the one I will never live down, and to this day wonder why my dad was listening to, was Whitesnake. I got it right, but Alex Trebek may have debated my answer due to my pronunciation: “WhiteThnake!” I was pretty proud of myself that day.

Now, I grew up in a house filled with music from all eras and genres – and I very much appreciate that about my parents. In fact, I think the only music outlawed in our house was The Beach Boys. (We can talk about “Pet Sounds” later.)

I can remember Saturday mornings listening to Genesis, winding the day down with a dance to Pasty Cline and cleaning the house to the Four Tops – or anything with four in the name for that matter. Although my dad was a little white kid from upstate New York, he has always had a remarkable affinity for Motown. Sometimes his concerts even involved a little air drumming – especially when it came to Led Zeppelin.

And then it hit me. Whether it was my Walkman, my Discman or my MP3 player, I was a mini-me of my dad. I would sit in my room, or the car on long vacations, and presumably wear my tapes and CDs out – listening at the highest possible volume. I was having my own ‘concerts.’ And to me it was magical.

It was like therapy without the therapy. Everything that can be said, everything that can be felt or everything that should be said or should be felt can be done so through music.

When I was in high school and college, I used to sprawl out in bed or on the couch and turn my iPod on full blast for hours at a time just to decompress. I used to be ashamed of this. I thought, how odd…I really don’t know any one who does this. But why the hell don’t they?

Sitting, listening and appreciating music helps me process. It is an escape, a chance to think of better things that will happen in the future and a chance to reflect on the nostalgic times I sometimes wish for when it gets quiet.

And if you know me at all or have ever heard me talk about my father, you might have a slight idea that he is kind of my rock, my hero and a little bit inspiring. And as much as people like to say I am mostly like my mom, I see a lot of myself in my father.

Although he can be hardheaded, sometimes hard to please and a little intimidating at other times, he is my dad and the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. And not just in terms of ritual music habits…

In fact, I remember my dad recalling the time he and my mother took me to see Captain EO at Disney World. I was so scared that I just buried my head in his chest the entire time. And he says the most remarkable thing about it was that he couldn’t believe how strong my little head was, smashing into his Bluto-like barrel chest. And maybe he was on to something – perhaps more figuratively.

While the love of music and using it as a kind of therapy may not be genetic, some other things are -- like personality traits. And I can say I am happy to inherit both from my Pops!

I just wanted to make my big dramatic exit :)

I will no longer be blogging because, despite what your friends tell you, it is a fruitless effort....and if you like writing, you'd be better served actually doing it and making things happen.

I have left Peter Pan-land... and hopefully next time you hear from me,  something will be published. (and if I can dream of being DeLillo or Bukowski or Miller, there is hope!)

Love
Me

“We all have potential to fall in love a thousand times in our lifetime. It’s easy. The first girl I ever loved was someone I knew in sixth grade. Her name was Missy; we talked about horses. The last girl I love will probably be someone I haven’t even met yet. They all count. But there are certain people you love who do something else; they define how you classify what love is supposed to feel like. These are the most important people in your life, and you’ll meet maybe four or five of these people over the span of 80 years. But there’s still one more tier to all this; there is always one person you love who becomes that definition. It usual happens retrospectively, but it always happens eventually. This is the person who unknowingly sets the template for what you will always love about other people, even if some of those lovable qualities are self-destructive and unreasonable. You will remember having conversations with this person that never actually happened. You will recall sexual trysts with this person that never technically occurred. This is because the individual who embodies your personal definition of love does not really exist. The person is real, and the feelings are real – but you create the context. And context is everything. That person wins. They win and you lose. Because for the rest of your life, they will control how you feel about everyone else.” CK

[Disclaimer: This is in no way directed at anyone or anything. Just food for thought.]

Because I forgot about this song and I like it. So there. 

 

You know you are getting old when the only items on your Christmas list are suits, nice jewelry and other accessories that can and should be worn in the work place. I asked for these things mostly because I was tired of being mistaken for an Occupy DC protestor at the office, and I just don't have a grand to drop on clothing right now. (But I do have a grand to drop on a computer, which was part of my two-month hiatus -- sorry.)

So in true growing up fashion, I decided to start my "New Year, New You," campaign today. I think it might be time to cancel my cable because I assume that is the only place I get these absurd ideas. Anyway, I wore my first skirt suit today. Yup, not just a suit...I had to go all D.C. and get a skirt suit. Don't worry though, I will NEVER pair it with sneakers and pantyhose. If I start doing that shit, you can slap me.

Well needless to say, halfway through my walk to work, I realized that I am not quite comfortable with my new found adult status. About three blocks from work I realized I looked like a total turd. A real big turd -- the kind you can't polish. I couldn't go home though, I was already running late (of course).

Now, this is a mighty fine suit, but there were aggravating factors that made this outfit look like something Mary Poppins might wear had she graduated from the Professional Bag Lady Academy. The skirt was down to my knees, if not longer. I had to switch to flats mid-day because my feet were achin', and my hair was in a very haphazardly arranged ponytail. Oooh, and I had to carry my lunch in a resuable grocery bag because my new purse is a wee bit small.

Actually, now that I think of it, it was some Benjamin Button shit. It is like a 50-something crazy cat lady being nominated for "What Not to Wear" and a 5-year-old girl trying on her mother's clothes, playing secretary at the kitchen table got stuck in the Freaky Friday machine and spit my ass out. So upon realizing this, I decided that maybe, just maybe, I will wait to break out my Laura Bush skirt suits until I have them properly tailored, or until I wait and wait and wait and realize I have a huge meeting coming up.

And although I don't think I am quite a grown up yet, I do believe I am coming down with a mean case of senility.

In typical Jamie fashion, I decided to get a head start on this year's panic attacks by losing my wallet whilst completely sober.  I mean, this tends to happen every other weekend, but this time it was a doozy.  Sit back and enjoy:

'Twas two days before New Year's Eve and all through the city, people were getting drunk, people were getting shitty. 

So Jamie decided that since no one would be in the office on Friday and it was a half day because she was heading to the "Switzerland of America" (aka Colorado), she would actually get her ass ready and go out on a weekday!

After checking her suitcase for the 359th time, Jamie decided she was done packing for the night. Surely she had everything she needed, even an emergency dress in case she wanted to get sexy in a cabin in the middle of nowhere. (You never know who you might have to impress, ladies.)

She hopped in a cab and was off like a rocket as she searched frantically for cash in her purse and her pocket. 

She managed to find a twenty tucked neatly into her wallet, so she paid the dear taxi driver and wished him a good night. She then scampered out of the cab and up the steps to the bar to meet her friends. When she got to the doorman she realized something, something horrible. Her ID wasn't there.

Oh and not just her ID, her entire wallet. 

She ran down the stairs with tears in her eyes, poured out her purse in the street and cried "Lies! Lies! Lies!" 

She realized she must've left the sacred billfold in the backseat of the cab -- all alone in that backseat with dried bits of vomit and the dignity of others. She paced up and down the block with her hand over her open mouth. In a state of utter shock, she began texting people, letting them know what happened, begging and pleading for their advice and generally being a miserable mess of irresponsibility. 

Some offered money for a cab ride home, others offered solutions like calling the cab association. It was no use. She could barely think straight. I mean, she had to get on a plane the next day and she had no ID....and god forbid she ever go on vacation and NOT be able to drink! How dare you suggest that! 

Realizing that the DC Cab Commission operating hours ended at 4 p.m. and that she had no idea which one-man cab operation she took to the bar, Jamie shrunk to the ground, sat on the curb and pretty much quit. 

Then out of nowhere came a valet in blue, a man with an accent, a man with a clue!

He said to Jamie, "Miss. Your ID. You drop. I give to cops." After getting over the fact that it took him about twenty minutes to bring this to her attention -- despite her walking the streets on the verge of tears and mouth all agape -- she ran to the Russian valet and asked for more information. He explained that he found it in the intersection right next to the cab and turned it over to two 'undercover' cops in a white Impala. 

Oh great, Jamie thought. He gave my wallet to two strangers. The wallet could very well be making its way to the liquor store right now, only Jamie would not be partaking in this party. She was busy trying to figure out how to get her wallet back.

Then at the corner Jamie noticed blue lights a-flashin', and she ran over to the car in a maniacal fashion. She knocked on the window, knocked on the door. The policemen must've thought, "Who the hell is this whore?"

The officers rolled down the window and the valet told them his story. They seemed to know exactly who these two undercovers were. And the officers agreed to call the other pair and see just what happened. They had Jamie stand in the light of their patrol car, in the middle of the street in downtown DC. Passers-by assumed the worst -- busted for drunk walking! But they were oh so wrong, for Jamie had not even had a beer yet. 

They called her back over and delievered the good news. The undercovers had her wallet and were en route to her apartment. Instead of leaving the wallet with the front desk at Jamie's apartment, the undercovers agreed to swing back around and personally deliver the goods. 

Jamie waited patiently on the side of the street, when the white Impala pulled up and handed over her black leather billfold, all together and neat. She thanked the officers and valet profusely, and headed back to the bar holding her wallet every which way but loosely. 

Now, there is your heartwarming holiday story. Goodnight, kiddos!