Always awkward cont.

The awkwardness is a part of one’s idiosyncrasies. It’s a maladroit that can either be so insuperably cute or painful to witness one might just have a heart attack. My name is Phoebe and I have chronic awkwardness. Now, I have come to terms with this... disorder and learned to live with being a bizarre, weird, absurd, clumsy, and ungraceful wretch. Can I help it if I refuse to eat the pointy ends of French fries, fat baby carrots, or a peanut butter & jelly sandwich that has a higher peanut butter to jelly ratio? Is it my fault that I have been cursed with an absurdly nasal Jewish, and demonic voice that comes out at random points of the day when I am in pain, in shock, in love, in hate, in a pickle, in lieu, frustrated, confused, happy, apathetic, sad, depressed, mildly depressed, manically depressed, sleeping, eating, praying, cursing, driving, walking, running, wheelin’, dealin’, living, dying... for some reason that voice really freaks people out. So what if I find the scent of moth balls soothing? I attempt to live a blithe existence but sometimes my chronic awkwardness comes out at extremely unfortunate times. But other times, my awkwardness brings out some beautiful things and I can stand to enjoy life a little more when I realize that.

The perpetual stink

I wonder if there is such a thing as being chronically awkward. Not that forced, hipster awkwardness where standing pigeon-toed, looking haplessly forlorn, and reading Hemingway at Starbucks is actually cool. Chronic awkwardness is something so painful, weird, or absurd to watch, your insides writhe with such confusion whether or not to laugh, cry, belch, or a hum pretending you never witnessed such a person. But do not get confused; chronic awkwardness is not the same as chronic embarrassment. There is a possible point that you could laugh at yourself after you are embarrassed. With chronic awkwardness there is no aegis, no shield, or protection from impending awkwardness.  You never know what’s going to come out of your mouth and what’s worse, what you think you say is normal is in fact, terribly weird and outlandish. It’s as if Larry David, Woody Allen, weimaraners in trenchcoats,  and the cast members of The Office are all inside your brain, instructing your body where to lead its path of clumsy destruction next. 

            Have you ever had to really use the bathroom in a public place? Except you’re dreading using it because it’s only a single toilet bathroom and you have other people waiting outside for you to finish? Once you’re finished, you leave the bathroom with such incredulous stink that you feel sorry for the next person who has to walk into that bathroom after you because they’ll know once they step in there what you did. But the point of being chronically awkward is making a comment about the smell like saying “Heh, heh... good luck,” rather than walking out and pretending there is no smell at all. My life is a cycle of perpetual stink to which I say things that I shouldn’t say, make motions without any discrepancy, and accidentally hurt everyone around me by tripping, tumbling, falling, or head-butting them. My current boyfriend, Noah, recalls,

            “If you added up all the times you’ve physically hurt me [on accident] and if I turned it around on you all at once, I would probably end your life right then.”

                                                                                                                        Ouch.