Blame it on the chicken...

It took me three hours to get ready that night when it normally took me an hour. In between the fidgeting and pacing (which had my roommate shaking her head at me because I was so nervous), I finally managed to throw together what I thought was the perfect outfit. I really liked this boy, and I was determined to impress him that night—from my posture to my best pair of heels to the way my eyelashes were perfectly separated.

I would let him open the car door for me, I decided, and be quiet and meek, letting him ask all the questions. In other words, I was determined I wouldn’t ask tons of questions (which was/is normal for me) that would scare the poor guy like, ‘How do you adapt military institutions to changing social mores?’ (The guy I was on the date with covered ‘military issues’ for some congressman out East and I so wanted to ask the question, but I decided to keep my mouth shut regarding topics like this for at least first date.) I even tried to be low maintenance and request we go to Chili’s instead of Signatures where he would have spent a fortune for me to enjoy a simple house salad.

The date was going smoothly. Conversation was flowing nicely about superficial things, and he was asking the questions. My posture was impeccable. And then it happened –just after I finished my house salad. I say ‘it’ because inevitably, whenever I try my hardest to ‘be smooth or something I’m not or look like I have it completely together’ (no matter what the situation), I do that something called ‘it’ that is always and absolutely embarrassing. It never fails.

This time—on this date, I happened to choke on a piece of chicken. To make a long story short, the rest of the date was an utter disaster because I choked so hard that I think I may have actually cut my esophagus and I couldn’t talk without feeling the urge to cough. He never asked me out again (for fear he may have to give me the Heimlich maneuver), and as I recall, it was after this date that I made up my mind to try less hard to impress on any first date or any date or any situation in life (for that matter). I’m over it. So I guess we can blame it—my attitude of not trying to impress—on the chicken. That’s right, blame it on the chicken.

Now, I don’t go out of my way to ever be unpleasant with other people, especially during a first encounter. People need people, obviously, and I am not an island (nor do I want to be). I need people, and at some level, all of us need to feel accepted and liked. But I will admit that I am not the life of any party, and I never have been. (Thank you Captain Obvious.) I can be dull, especially on a Friday night after a hard work at week (Anybody up for hot chocolate?). I sometimes think about books I could be reading instead of spending an afternoon with newly introduced acquaintances. I can be moody and cantankerous, and I need my alone/quiet time. I typically don’t drink to get drunk. I’ll always prefer a cup of tea with a friend over a beer. I am usually in bed by 11 p.m. close to every night. I am terrible at telling stories in real life and sounding intelligent (I even stutter at times because of nerves or forgetting what the point of the story was about half way through).

But no matter what my quirks and all the things I lack socially, I’m simply over trying to impress people. What’s the point, anyway? There’s always going to be somebody who will not like me because I’m tall like the Green Giant (How are you doing down there?) or because I am too blunt or because I secretly want freckles.
I even wrote about this in my journal this past week—out of my frustration at recently being labeled a ‘prude’ or in the past, labeled ‘stuck up’ or ‘she thinks she’s so much better than.’ Oh really, now? I could relate story after story about how I’ve tried to impress or be something I’m not or tried to play cool or fit in, and you would hear stories about me falling down stairs, sitting in blue gum while wearing white pants right before a presentation I had dolled myself up for, having spinach stuck between my two front teeth while trying to be impressive in a conversation, etc. I’ve been there, done that, got the T-shirt. No thanks. Because trying to impress people usually tends to backfire on me. It’s one of God’s ways of keeping me a little more humble, I think.

Once in an interview, I was told by my future boss that he had a philosophy of ‘work hard, play hard’ and he wanted to know how that would fare with my social mores should I be hired (He sensed I was a prude, you see). I told him, ‘You do your thing, and I’ll do my thing. I’ll accept you for you, and you accept me for me, and I don’t think they’ll be a problem.’ And there never was. In fact, we got along quite well. (I did learn to lighten up a little through this particular office experience; however, which was a good thing.)

So I guess the point is I’ll keep living by the same standard I shared with this particular boss. A prude? Perhaps. But I guess all I can be is me. All you can be is you. I’m all here. You’re all there. Some of who we are is unique. Some of who we are, we share. And life would be pretty darn boring if we were all the same, you think? Life would also be pretty darn boring if all of us chose to value ‘fitting in’ or ‘impressing people’ instead of simply being ourselves. Eventually, who we really are will surface anyway. Besides, who are we really trying to impress anyway? I know, I know, I’m too blunt. (I know, I know, I’m too tall. And I know, I know, I love people with freckles.) Well, that’s me I’m afraid. I guess we can blame it on the chicken.