Being told not to worry what others think means very little to those of us who actually do. I should know, since I am one of those who gets worried every time your eyes wonder elsewhere during conversation: I am insecure.
There are all the classic symptoms: the awkward hellos with the people you sort of know, the little hesitation before dialing the phone, the ?ber-neutral conversation when first introduced to someone…just to make sure they don’t hate you. It’s all because you know everyone else has their shit figured out and is free to put all their energy into judging you.
I guess insecurity isn’t just a mental state but a way of life. I used to make it a game in high school of accusing girlfriends of actually being interested in someone else…weekly. Now that I can reflect on it, I’m amazed they stuck with me as long as they did (which was actually pretty long), since I probably wasn’t worth it even without the fights. In general, they were pretty cute, too. Although maybe you wouldn’t think so.
Even meeting my current girlfriend was a narrowly averted disaster. We had been getting to know each other for a couple of months and were at a party when someone suddenly shouted “Metro!”, presumably to control the numbers. Wanting no part of it, she bolted, which is when I let some obscure part of my brain push the rest of myself out after her. We ended up sitting in a dry Dalghren fountain and talking all night.
“You didn’t kiss me, though,” she reminded me. In the same night, I managed to screw up the principles of the hookup culture AND to be unable to seal the deal after an upperclasswoman had clearly enjoyed my presence for several hours. That’s the kind of insecurity that can only be hand-crafted, and now I can only chalk it up to fortune because it worked out for the best.
Honestly, the only reason I can put these thoughts out there is because no one’s reading over my shoulder. Each set of prying eyes here in the Midnight Mug, all potential readers, has to suffer the sheer anonymity of knowing me only by some faceless name here in print. Unless they know me-watching someone I know pick up this week’s Voice will probably be enough to make me change directions and avoid them. I can hear it already: “Did you write anything this week?”
So for now, the timid mouse gets to go back to his hole of a dorm room and nibble on Cheez-Its, somewhat content that he was able to put himself out there in print. And you know what? I don’t care what you think of it. But I hope you like it.
