It’s inevitable – not having something to write about. Or at least nothing interesting. I’m always on the lookout for something that hits me and I think – Ooooh! I want to write about that. Not unlike the days of the grocery store belly touching … this stuff just does not happen to me any more.
I couldn’t be happier about this, actually. I am awkward enough on my own, I really don’t need the added awkwardness of complete strangers to make my life more interesting. Or maybe I do.
This past month has been busy with wedding stuff for some of our friends- parties and rehearsals and then the wedding itself. One of the parties was the traditional bachelorette party and just to display my entire collection of awkward behavior, something quite shocking and really hurtful happened to one of the girls that was with us – and um, I hugged her. Just ran up to her and hugged her, like … like she was somehow going to feel magically better if I gave her a mom hug ?? Because literally those mom hugs do wonders … on three-year-olds. I even bent down a bit and was awkwardly reaching out – cheek to cheek.
Seriously. Why don’t I just have a folder marked “be still and shut up” somewhere in my brain that I can count on?
Not that this wasn’t appreciated. I’m not saying the hug was terrible – it definitely wasn’t the worst thing to do but it kind of was, at the same time. I just don’t have the mental capacity to comfort other people in almost any situation, especially if I’ve been through it myself. Death, heartache – family crap. I generally want to run and hide in those situations because I feel like I should have SOMETHING to say to my friends or people in my life – something to let them know that there is an “other side” that things will slowly get better. But it’s awful, I’m a clamoring bottle of teenage spirit in which the pimple faced kid with greasy hair finally gets the nerve to talk to the popular kids and all they have to talk about is their pet hamster and how it’s mating season.
Yeah, that kid had tons of friends.