The Friend Resume

I’m going to drop a bit of a bombshell on you, Dear Readers.

Are you ready for it?

Well, ready or not, here it is:

I am not very good at first impressions.

Ok. This is not as much of a secret as I like to pretend. In fact, I am pretty sure I have discussed it here in this blog multiple times (possibly every entry, but who wants to go back and read those?).

Seriously, Dear Readers, it’s bad.

I always come off as a bit deranged, super intense, and frighteningly eager. Sure, sometimes people find it endearing (I hope) but for the most part it just creeps people out a lot. Now, believe it or not, I really have tried to tone down my excitement when I meet someone new (aka: Potential Friends) but even my toned down enthusiasm is cringe worthy.

This lack of social grace has a tendency to make finding new friends a difficult task. Like, super difficult. Some might even say Herculean.
(That was word of the day and by golly I got to use it!)

This is why I was so excited when Kevin suggested the concept of the Friend Resume to me.*

The Friend Resume, Dear Readers!
How great is that?

The Friend Resume is a resume that you can carry around in your purse/briefcase and hand out to potential friends and it lists all of your delightful hobbies and possibly even includes references? Delightful!

Gone would be the days of awkward first impressions! Instead future friends could just read about you and decide ahead of time whether or not they want to set up weekly craft nights. I would obviously carry about five around with me every day. (One has to be discerning and five seems like a good number.) Perhaps I could even put them in nice portfolio folders to eliminate creases? New friends like you to be neat, right?

Right?

I mean, I can’t count the number of times I have met people in a store or overheard conversations on the bus and just thought to myself “These are my people!” Boy, would a Friend Resume have come in handy then!

Anyway, I have been working away at my Friend Resume and think it is finally complete and ready to go to the printer (once it receives your approval, of course.)

So stay tuned, Dear Readers, for the Friday unveiling of my Friend Resume. I am so ready to make friends!

*Disclaimer: Kevin was apparently kidding and does not endorse this idea. But so what? I think it’s awesome.

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Kindred Spirits! If only I had a Friend Resume, perhaps the two of us could have continued our friendship after the photo op?

 

 

Remember?

 ” Remember that time I was awkward?”

“You mean all the time?”

“Yeah, that’s the one!”

Bear-y Good!

Bear-y Good!

One of my favourite types of humour is when people laugh more because they are uncomfortable than because the joke was actually funny.

Growing up as an incredibly awkward child I used to make people uncomfortable all the time and it was devastating. I would always say something weird or completely out there. Often times I would stare too long or fidget and bump into things. Sometimes I would just avoid eye contact and speak reallyreallyreally fast.

And don’t even get me started on the hand gestures!

Dear Reader, I know I am not fooling anyone by saying all that in the past tense. We both know I still do all of those things. All the time. Every day.

It honestly wasn’t until I got much, much older that I learned to appreciate my awkwardness for the hilarious attribute it is. Once I began to embrace my inherent clumsiness and lack of social graces my life became so much easier.

Now I choose to laugh with the crowd rather than shrink awkwardly away when I do something silly.

And boy is it delightful.

PS. Dear Reader, this was meant to be a much longer post but I would rather save my awkward stories for stand-alone retellings where I can stretch out three sentences into three pages of rambling awkwardness, Alas, you will just have to be content with a short post and a picture of me pretending to be a bear.

 

Valentine’s Day: A Story of Love and Humiliation

My all-time, number-one favourite Valentine’s Day Memory also happens to be one of the most humiliating memories of my life. (Yes, I know that’s weird.)

This memory lacks the deliberately awful jabs that were so evident in my baseball encounter but it still has all the hallmarks of a terrible experience. Crowds of people? Check. Unnecessary (albeit unintentional) cruelty? Check. Feeling vulnerable? Check.

So prepare yourself dear reader, this is going to get good.

This Valentine’s Day, in the lovely and not nearly futuristic enough year 2015, marks the 10 Year Anniversary since ‘it’ happened and I am actually rather fond of retelling the story. I’ve told it hundreds of times and have really turned it into a near perfect performance. I know the best moments to pause and I have the sad yet nostalgic smile down to an art. Heck, I even know the exact second to let a tear quiver in the corner of my eye. (Alas, knowing this hasn’t helped me to produce the tear. I have unfortunately never been able to cry on command.)

I just wish I could go back and tell my 17 year old self how great this memory would become because at the time I certainly didn’t see any humour in the situation.

Let me paint the picture for you, dear reader. I am 17 years old and in my final year of high school. My three closest friends are all lovey dovey and annoyingly happy with their significant others who they have been dating for ages and were totally going to marry and love forever and ever. Everyone else in my social group is with someone whether seriously or ‘just having fun’.

I am the only one who is single.

Still, that didn’t bother me overly much. Sure I felt awkward being the fifth (or sometimes seventh) wheel on our super awesome Friday Night Movie Nights but I’ve always possessed enough self-deprecation that it’s never been hard to laugh at myself and brush the worst of it aside.

Until Valentine’s Day.

Unbeknownst to me my darling besties were all quite concerned about my single state. Imagine, being alone on Valentine’s Day. Alone. Unloved. Unwanted. It was a serious tragedy.

Which is why in their love for me they decided to cheer me up in what I am sure seemed like a good idea at the time. (You know, kinda like how it seems like a good idea at the time to tie a rope around your waist, stand on a skateboard, and have your friend drive you around the neighbourhood really fast. Road rash may not last forever but the YouTube video certainly will.)

So here I was on Valentine’s Day, single and ok with it, working my afterschool job at Taco Time with another good friend (who also happened to be in a relationship). The restaurant was completely full, busy with all of the couples clamoring for their tacos (no euphemism intended). And then in walks my friends, boyfriends in tow.

The six-some stood right up next to the counter, edging between tables of people to get as close as possible and presented me with the ugliest stuffed heart pillow (purple and pink and red and just plain hideous) and then all looked at me with identically pitying glances.

Just to give you an idea, this is kind of what the pillow looked like, only uglier ... So. Much. Uglier.

Just to give you an idea this is kind of what the pillow looked like, only uglier … So. Much. Uglier.

My best friend at the time took the lead, offering me a sad smile. “Sarah, we wanted to let you know that just because no guy loves you doesn’t mean that we don’t love you. Thank you for being you!”

I promise you, dear reader, with no word of exaggeration that the entire restaurant went quiet as she spoke, her voice carrying in the silence. All eyes turned on me as I blushed furiously and accepted the Heart Pillow. Then the snickers started. Then laughter took over. Even my co-worker had to run into the back room laughing so hard she almost peed herself.

I was humiliated and left to stand there at the counter helping customers as people at their tables sat and pointed or just stared, the same pitying expression in their eyes that my friends had carried with them. My friends all left, eager to get their dates started now that their errand was complete.

I went home and cried that night huddled alone in my room watching ‘Titanic’ and cuddling my dog, still burning with humiliation. It was awful.

It’s been 10 years and the memory is now coloured with humour and fondness instead of the dread that it used to inspire. It is still so fresh and vivid in my mind.

Dear reader, you could not pay me to be young again.

Disclaimer: I spoke to my friends the next day and they were all genuinely horrified to find out my reaction to what they had honestly thought to be a kind gesture. What can I say? The road to Hell is paved with good intentions.

Oh, Titanic. Has there ever been a more romantic movie? You know ... aside from the whole tragedy of the sinking boat and all of the people who died.

Oh, Titanic. Has there ever been a more romantic movie? You know … aside from the whole tragedy of the sinking boat and all of the people who died.

Stages of Funny

I’m only funny on paper.

Though I suppose I should say I am much funnier on paper.

It’s true. Unless I’m doing my roadrunner impression for you (which I won’t, unless you’re my Dad) or quoting Aqua Teen Hunger Force (which I won’t, unless you’re not my Dad) I’m really not very funny.

It’s shocking, I know, but it’s the truth. In real life rather than being witty, throwing out zinger after zinger and dazzling you with my one-liner capabilities, I mostly just awkwardly mumble to myself and daydream about Jesse Eisenberg and why he should be in every movie ever.

(I love that man.)

If my “in-person” presence does inspire a few laughs, it’s usually because I’ve just knocked myself out with my door or asked my father if he thinks I’m cool. (Do laughs still count if they are at you and not with you? In this case, yes.)

I suppose I am exaggerating slightly. People I have known for a looooong time (an extra “O” is added for each year of our friendship) are able to enjoy my own personal brand of sarcasmic glory, but the average person isn’t as blessed (unless they follow my blog, in which case I am sorry. So very sorry).

To drive my point home, I will explain further.
(Obviously. My blog is hardly known for mincing words, especially when those words are about me. Boy-oh-boy do I love to write about myself. And about LOLCats … I really do love to write about LOLCats. But NOT as much as I love to write about myself …)

See, my humour comes in two stages:

Stage One: Reserved, quiet Sarah makes the occasional clever observation about her surroundings. This is usually heard as a mumble and is followed by a stammer and a blush. If the witness is lucky, some physical humour in the form of tripping or a snort will follow.

Stage Two: Overly Enthusiastic Sarah scares her audience with a barrage of lame jokes, comic book and pop culture references, more lame jokes, sarcastic comments, EVEN MORE lame jokes and far-too-many run on sentences. This is usually followed by jazz hands or an awkward attempt (and subsequent failure) of the Robot.

There is no in between. The switch from Stage One to Stage Two is not gradual and will come without warning. At first it will be entertaining, but then it will grate on you like that strobe light you thought was a great buy back in grade 7.

Now, to end this post as awkwardly and abruptly as possible, I will finish with the following:
No matter which stage of my humour you are subjected to, you will find yourself agreeing with my original statement.

I am much funnier on paper.