Last night, I was reminded of an awkward scene from my early 20s. It went something like this:
There was a hot guy in my undergrad technical writing class. He friended me on myspace (Yeah, remember when THAT used to be a viable website?) then invited me to one of his bands’ shows. I went against my instinct, which was RUN! HIDE! And instead assembled a small group of ladies and went.
It was somewhere TERRIBLE, somewhere like the Dirty Burnie (for you Maryland readers), at a biker-type bar. We walked in, apprehensively. We played pool, badly. We downed some beer, quickly. I remember drinking Heineken, for some inexplicable reason (or substitute some beer your Grandpa liked to drink out of a glass along with a few pretzels, something like Molsen).
Anyway, after the show, my friends were all “you should go say hi.” And at that moment, I wanted to pass out. There he was, packing up his guitar, and I walked up behind him, tapping him on the back (sweet moves, right?).
So he spins around, recognizes me, and shakes my hand. And what do I say? Why, I mumble the worst thing I could say:
“You guys were kind of good.”
WHAT? Who does that? Anyway, nothing else ever happened between me and said guy, not that I’m surprised. Until last night.
I was sitting in a booth with my BFFs at La Tolteca, Jane and Myrick, and I see a guy walking by in skinny jeans, a hoodie, a slouchy hat, and scraggly beard. “Hipster, hipster, HIPSTER,” I chanted in a semi-whisper, so Jane would look. As that last “hipster” was coming out of my mouth, it dawned on me who this guy was.
Yes, that guy. And I died a little inside with that realization. I cringed.
And, he looked awkward. Not me this time, him.
And I smiled.
I’m glad my awkward phase is almost over.