Awk

It’s time to close the book on a big old chapter of life, kids. On Wednesday, I turned in my last sheath of credit card receipts, tossed one more lovingly chiding comment to the chefs in the kitchen, gave a big juicy kiss on the lips to my regulars (metaphorically, people, no sexual harassment panda) and ambled on out the door and into the sunset (and by sunset I obviously mean hordes of bar patrons, embracing the final few days in Boulder without college students by getting drunk and acting like college students).

After one year and three months (almost exactly), I am no longer anyone’s friendly server, backwaiter, expediter, barback, or any other position in the front of the house of a restaurant. I do not work nights (sort of… shameless self pitch: read my restaurant reviews and blogposts here). I have weekends free.

My newfound freedom is terrifying. I’d entirely forgotten what it feels like to be part of a Friday night end-of-work-week shitshow, for example. Good thing it’s like riding a bike. This girl’s a fast re-learner.

You may recall that the past year has been marked with a number of decisions to get my shit together, having thoroughly scattered said shit to the wind after quitting my adult New York City consulting job to have some fun for awhile. But nothing says “clean up your act” like having a grown-up schedule and grown-up responsibilities, so my moment arrived, at last, last weekend. I tidied my room with an OCD eye, extracted the skis from my car that had been there since February, bought new furniture, got an oil change, bought a bedskirt, got a haircut and shaved my private parts. Don’t stop me now.

Lindsay also recently became a 9-to-5-er, so our apartment has undergone a transformation. The ugly carpets and cabinets may still exist, but real potted plants are supplanting fake ones, a dishrack supplanted a mangy towel, and most days, our house is tidy and kept. I should shed a tear for our dying childhood. Despite our best efforts to remain irresponsible and immature, we are becoming adults. Special.

We have a few items that are remnants of our carefree days of drinking until 4 am and sleeping until noon, though, and we’d like to auction them off as souvenirs. If you’re interested, please contact us with your best offer.

Exhibit A

Once upon a time, when we were but reckless youth, we liked to throw parties that carried the potential for shotgunning beers on the balcony. We’re not entirely certain how old this cluster of brewed beverages is— it likely pre-dates April–but you probably won’t perish if you drink one of these classy thirst-quenchers. I don’t know that I’d try to shotgun them, though. I’m no scientist, but I’d guess that Colorado’s spectrum of temperatures has some effect on carbonation that may result in hazardous conditions upon opening the can.

Exhibit B

Five months ago, our beloved roommate Paige moved out. We were very sad to see her go. She was very nice and very fun and she did a lot of the chores that Lindsay and I don’t like to do. Like take the recycling out. Before she moved, she insisted she was going to take our full tubs of plastic and glass down to the community recycling bins that exist a mere flight of steps away. We were adamant that she leave it. Really, it was my fault that it had piled up so high. I was the one who broke up with the boyfriend who used to take care of that particular duty. Still, we insisted that we would deal with the recycling. It is August. We still haven’t. We’ll probably institute some kind of bet or competition, loser gets to handle this mess, but fully recognizing that one man’s trash is another man’s treasure, we’d like to offer it to you first.

Exhibit C

Let it be known that this garbage can of standing water is a vast improvement from the garbage can of half-empty keg that stood in its place from October 2009 – July 2010. However, with the nest of mosquitoes developing above this biohazard, the time has come to let our trusty capsule of fun go. If you can figure out how to get it out of our apartment without spilling a drop of water teeming with parasites on our floor, you can have it. Perhaps if you’re a composter this will serve a purpose (I don’t really know how composting works).

I have solved my sweaty armpit problem.

But before I get to that, I would like to thank all of you who suggested Botox as a potential solution. Upon hearing about that magical little fix, I figured I must have missed something in my female education, and I headed on down to Pharamaca, Boulder’s hippie pharmacy, in search of the stuff.

See, when you said Botox, I thought you were talking about a cream or powder or lotion chock full of botulism that I could spread across my pits on a daily basis, plugging my sweaty pores and allowing me to continue on with my post-pubescent life. I never dreamed that you actually meant the procedure, complete with needles and doctors and thousands of dollars.

So when I got to Pharmaca, I stood ashamedly in the deodorant aisle, perusing the natural products made by Tom’s and Organic Glen and Pangea, with nary a Botox cream in sight. Heart sinking, I became acutely aware that I was going to have to ask for help, further bruising my fragile ego by making the attractive lone-working male aware of my overactive glands.

I approached the counter while avoiding eye contact.

“Um, hi,” I whispered. “Um, do you have, um, botox?”

“WHAT?” yelled my attractive male helper. “WHAT? WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING FOR?”

I refused to raise my voice. “Um, um, botox? For, um, the pits? The, um, the armpits?”

He was clearly confused. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about. Isn’t botox an injection?”

“Um, yeah, but I think it comes in cream form for people with sweaty armpits,” I said, blushing furiously, moisture pouring forth from aforementioned crevices.

“Yeah, I don’t know what you’re looking for. You can ask at the pharmacy, though.”

Which I did. Only to be informed that you people actually mean BOTOX INJECTIONS. What the hell? How is that a sustainable solution for my needs?

It’s coo, though, I’ve solved my problem. I needed deodorant one night because I forgot to bring it to a, um, sleepover party, and I knew my Degree extra-strength wasn’t going to make me smell like a super cute girl all night. Which was important, given all the, uh, hair braiding and pillow fighting I was about to do.

Anywho, I stopped by a real grocery store—as in King Soopers instead of Whole Foods, which is the only grocery store that exists in Boulder, CO—and I was delighted to find that this place still sold products full of aluminum alloys and processed chemicals and a number of other scientific innovations that will probably someday cause me to die an untimely and tragic death.

And lo and behold, Secret Clinical Strength Deodorant. Miraculous. I bought a tube instantly, and slicked on a layer so thick I practically needed a trowel to spread the stuff out.

And guess what? My armpits stayed totally dry through all the, uh, pillow fighting! And later at work, I kept lifting up my arm to show my co-workers my utter lack of a wet spot. The stuff’s like cement. It clogs up all my pores so well no flood will get through. Course, it also leaves weird white residue on everything, but whatev.

Bonus: I now like how my pits smell so much I can’t get my face out from underneath my arm.

Just got off the phone with MCI, who was investigating my phone number for a customer who was disputing its listing on her bill.

It was a little harrying, a man on the other side of the phone asking who owned the phone number, verifying my name about seven times and questioning me repeatedly as to whether or not I was the holder of the line.

“Who wants to know?” I finally asked, after I’d confirmed for the eighth time that my name was, in fact, Ms. Shunk.

“Ms. Shunk,” he said.

“WHAT? YES I’M MS. SHUNK,” I yelled exasperatedly.

“You’re Ms. Shunk?”

“YES THAT’S WHAT I KEEP SAYING.”

“Ms. Shunk wants to know,” he said, confusedly.

“WHAT IN THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT. I’M MS. SHUNK! ME! LAURA SHUNK! YOU ARE TALKING TO MS. SHUNK!”

“Laura Shunk” turned out to be the kicker. My investigator was my mother, who didn’t recognize the long-distance New York based cell phone number I’ve held since July of 2008 on her bill.  Our shared last name was what was tripping the poor fellow up.

Hi. Did you miss me?

I’m sorry. Things are happening in my life.

1. I’m writing food and restaurants for Denver’s Westword on a fairly regular basis. It seems more prudent, then, to post all my silly thoughts on my edible obsession in a forum dedicated to that very subject instead of tossing them out to the universe on my mixed-subject blog.

2. I’m dating someone, and I’m trying hard not to scare him off (by, uh, divulging all of my thoughts on the situation on this here public platform) since I think he’s kind of rad. Perhaps, if I succeed in not scaring him off, I will soon be able to write about him. So, you know, you can look forward to that.

Unfortunately, the combination of those factors kind of takes away a couple of my main sources of material, at least temporarily.

Luckily, I’m still awkward Laura, despite some of my friends’ best attempts to crush that out of me, and so there’s a choice story or two lurking in the past few weeks that may turn into written passages. Like when I opened the sparkling Prosecco at a table and sprayed everyone in a five-foot radius with a glowing arch of foam. Or when I acted like a child playing Trivial Pursuit, ending the game by throwing all the cards on the floor in the middle of a crowded bar.

But for now, I’d like to comment on something more timely: Memorial Day Weekend.

When I was a kid, I remember waiting for Memorial Day Weekend with great anticipation. There was usually a barbecue or two to be had. The pool opened for the summer. And it signified the home stretch of school, occurring just a week before I’d be free to toss all my schoolbooks aside and play outside for three blissful months. Uh, by “play outside” I obviously mean, “participate in my library’s summer reading program” in which I would competitively try to devour more stories than any other small child in my neighborhood. I would win, too, because most kids were more interested in fun than fictional characters.

Now, I like Memorial Day Weekend for Sunday Funday, chock full of binge-eating and daytime drinking. I had a busy social schedule this holiday weekend, and I found myself trying to juggle a wealth of potential activities with a mélange of foci, ranging from diner fried chicken to home-brewed lavender mead. Reasoning that I hadn’t seen my Denver-based friends in quite some time (hey, it’s hard to leave the bubble), I chose to attend the two parties to which I’d been invited down south.

The first was a do-over of the housewarming at which I made a grand entrance with half a bottle of wine. I brought beer this time, did not slip on the ice, and spent a couple of delightful hours eating meatballs with a toothpick and dissecting every pro and con of Eric’s new smoker, in which he prepared a large quantity of pulled pork over charcoal-induced flame. I made small talk with a couple of people, heard a fascinating description of a hand injury that included two gay men and a cowboy hat, and enjoyed my lawn chair in the sun, complete with a cup holder for a cold beverage. Solid start.

The second barbecue in which I was a participant was located in a stressful place for me: the country. Recently, my old friend, Brian, marched down the aisle in his cap and gown after finishing 8 years of undergraduate work. Such an occasion called for celebration (and copious amounts of alcohol), and there was no better place to hold the event than on his parents’ property in the middle of nowhere on a day when everyone wanted to get blitzed.

Upon my arrival, I was handed a glass of high-alcohol homemade strawberry wine and asked to evaluate the mix of ingredients in a pitcher of mojitos. Nothing like starting fast. Brian’s brother had prepared a cornucopia of delicious snacks, including marinated mushrooms and a jicama and papaya salad, and I found myself noshing, again, and charming an onslaught of new friends with pithy comments and aptly-timed jokes.

All was going swimmingly until the entire crew of adults decided to play whiffle ball.

Whiffle ball may not be a sport to you, but it’s a sport to me, and not a single fiber of my entire holiday-weekend being wanted to be involved with an activity that involves swinging a giant plastic bat at a giant plastic ball. I was willing to be the photographer. I was willing to be the cheerleader. I was willing to ice down a bucket of beers for post-game drinking. I was not willing to run. I was not willing to swing a bat. I was not willing to stand in the middle of a field of thistle in my mini-skirt and flip-flops only to try to chase down or—worse yet—catch something.

Brian was not to be deterred, picking me second for his team, and it was quickly apparent to everyone that he’d made a mistake. Much like my college friends would tell me to go long during flag football, I was quickly relegated to deep right field. When our team was up to bat, I was the only member of the line-up to strike out. And halfway through inning one, I cut my foot on a sharp piece of grass.

Panic set in as I experienced a flashback to my awkward phase, when I’d hunch sullenly with my arms crossed, not talking to anyone, any time my friends were enjoying a rousing team sport.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” I muttered, slinking off to the house as quietly as I could. And I remained in the empty kitchen, posted up at the counter alone, nursing my injury and my pride, until dusk had firmly settled over the land and disbanded the game.

I couldn’t get my social swerve back after that, what with my shame over being whiffle ball’s least valuable player, and so I made my way back up to Boulder instead of spending the night as I’d planned. I regretted that choice in the morning when I upsettingly woke to 8 am karaoke entertaining the 15,000 runners participating in another Memorial Day Weekend classic, the Boulder Bolder, just below my bedroom window.

I won’t say this weekend’s totally lost its luster. After all, I’m not running a 10K with everyone else in town. Next year, though, I’ll plan better, perhaps with my own social gathering, full of apertifs and free of athleticism.

In my online dating profile, I jest that I’m comfortable with allowing any member of the OKCupid community to judge me by my iTunes library.

That is a filthy lie.

In principle, I don’t take issue with my taste. I happen to own the fact that both Mariah Carey and MGMT have a place in my rotation. I’m okay with the idea that my volumes of Bob Dylan tunes are supplemented by the entire oeuvre of Lady Gaga. I don’t need to hide the showtunes that have crept in amongst socially respectable obscure folk. And I get no small pleasure from secretly listening to the shiny vocals of Leona Lewis in some Fair Trade coffee shop while wearing all black and typing furiously on my macbook.

Loud and proud as I am about my massive collection of guilty pleasures, though, that confidence goes right out the window when I’m charged with using my playlists for a party, road trip, or other background noise occasion. Of all the stressful situations I encounter on a semi-regular basis, this one may be the worst.

Take, for instance, a romantic dinner date. I’ve made a perfectly creamy risotto. I’ve selected a well-matched Chablis. I’ve properly placed the tea lights around the dining room. I’ve crafted a playlist of sexy hits. And then, inexplicably, Whitney Houston is regaling us with “I Will Always Love You.” Bad times.

Let’s examine a party. People are laughing and having a good time to an eclectic mix of pop, rock, and rap, and then Meredith Brooks “Bitch” pops into rotation, causing the entire crowd to pause and look at me quizzically until I can run to the other side of the room and push fast forward.  Stressful.

And then there are those rare occasions where I’m shuffling the entire collection because I think I’m shrouded in privacy, and a surprise visitor pops in just as some cheesy instrumental of an Andrew Lloyd Webber masterpiece makes its appearance amidst the volumes of Ryan Adams that had been playing up until that point. Russian Roulette, that. Not fair.

As such, when it’s my music collection gracing the stereo system, I can’t relax. I can’t hold normal conversation. I’m just sitting there, one ear on the happenings surrounding me and one ear on the speaker, ready to pounce like a mountain lion on the control should I need to deal with an embarrassing situation. And I have a compulsive need to ask for validation at the start of each song: “Do you like this song? Should I fast forward? Do you think it’s inappropriate for the moment?”

I realize no one cares as much as me in these scenarios, and for that reason, I’ll relinquish the control of the soundtrack to my much more musically intelligent friends any day of the week. Hey, I’ll bring the food and booze, you bring the ambience. Sounds like a good deal.

I’d like to note that while I crafted this entry, Sarah McLachlan was Building a Mystery and R. Kelly was breaking off a little piece of the remix. No big deal.

About a year ago, I wrote a rant against the physical activity first date. I am unathletic. I am also intensely competitive. Physical activity first dates bring out the combination of these two unhappy unbecoming traits and don’t exactly poise me to be my best most dateable self.

Since that moment of self-awareness last spring that followed a disastrous date involving Frisbee golf, I’ve successfully avoided physical activity with romantic partners entirely. I’ve made my unathleticism part of my charm. I’ve stayed firmly planted in the realm of coffee, drinks, and dinner. I even had a boyfriend for a couple of months that never so much as saw me wearing workout gear. I’ve learned, I thought. I’ll never have this horrendous problem again.

Unfortunately, kind of like world political leaders, I am doomed to make the same mistakes over and over and over again. I’m destined to never learn. I’m fated to repeat my actions with expectation of a different outcome. Insanity. Cool.

About a week ago, I had the makings of a pretty epic first date. Over a cup of Fair Trade organic coffee, a nice young man and I discussed our backgrounds, livelihoods, and the political and philosophical ramifications of the global food system.

Like most girls, a good heated discussion about political economics goes straight to my heart and loins, and something about the way we ranted and raved about the USDA, permaculture, processed food, Michael Pollan, and urban gardening for two hours as we sipped sweet black nectar of the gods left me wanting more. So instead of cutting the date short at the natural breaking point, when our cups lay empty and the discussion had come to a peaceful close, I suggested happy hour.

My venue of choice was a new restaurant in town that sources from yard gardens and cures its own meats. It’s located on The Hill, a college-heavy area of Boulder approximately 1 mile from my home and our coffee shop of choice.

The Hill is named aptly because of the elevation gain one must surmount in order to crest its peak and partake in its offerings. Given that elevation gain, I wanted to drive. Naturally (this is Boulder, peoples’ republic of reducing the carbon footprint), my date wanted to bike.

I took pause. I envision biking as a romantic activity in which I don a sundress and have rosy cheeks and flowing hair. In reality, though, I have biked one time in the past two years, and it was more aptly characterized by spandex, sweat, and chafed thighs. My cheeks were rosy enough, but only because I was wheezing like an asthmatic after encountering a mild grade. That scenario is not cute.

On the other hand, our destination was a mere mile away. I could wear my street clothes. And this wasn’t a competitive activity; it was just a meandering ride down the peaceful Boulder roads to a peaceful Boulder restaurant. How bad could it be?

I found myself nodding in agreement to the no-car plan, and we trekked over to my house to retrieve my bike, rusted and forlorn in the spot on my porch it’s inhabited since I brought it to Boulder almost a year ago. I awkwardly maneuvered it through my apartment, ignoring the eyebrow raise of my beloved roommate, and toddled down the steps to the street.

My date was eagerly awaiting my arrival, grinning at me from where he was sitting jauntily on his seat, one foot on the pedal and one resting easily on the ground. I took a deep breath, convincing myself that the phrase “like riding a bike” had to have come from somewhere, and lifted my right leg.

Rrrriiiippppp.

Apparently, street clothes and biking don’t mix for this girl. Apparently, I should have swapped skin-tight jeans for spandex. Apparently, I was now dealing not just with exercise, but also with crotchless pants. On a first date.

Horrified, I looked up to see if my man of interest had noticed my blunder. If a flicker of horror crossed his face, I didn’t see it. It seemed that, somehow, I’d gotten away with murder.

But then there was the age-old dilemma: Change pants or stay the course? I’m admittedly an expert at disguising assless chaps, but was this something I wanted to deal with when I was trying to flirt? Was this putting my best foot forward?

Of course it was. Not wanting to raise alarm, I decided to carry on sans new pants, and I followed my date up The Hill. 10 minutes and about a 1000-foot change in altitude later, he gracefully pulled his bike into a rack in front of the restaurant, smiling, chattering, and reflecting on how good it feels to soak in the mountain air.

I did not respond. My own cycle wobbled a bit, forced forward jerkily with all of my intention, and I dismounted to put my head between my knees (but not too deep, for fear of aggravating the aforementioned wardrobe malfunction).

Sweaty, panting, and secret hole the size of Texas, I finally climbed the steps to happy hour, convinced that an ice cold glass of rosé would never taste so good again. I mopped the sweat from my brow in the bathroom, tried to salvage my hair style, and stood on tiptoes to try to see just how much of my private parts were visible (certainly some, if one looked close enough).

It took a few minutes to rekindle the conversation, what with my shortness of breath and heightened awareness of my naked thighs, but I pressed on in the name of pork and social grace, taking solace in the fact that it would be dark outside when we made the all-downhill trip home.

I’m not sure why I continue to press on, solving the problems of my own social shortcomings at precisely the moments I want my interpersonal aptitude to shine, but I give up on learning. Hopefully, to someone out there, awkwardness is, simply, adorable.

I first became aware of the sweatiness of my armpits in 5^th grade during a Saturday afternoon when I was supposed to be napping but was instead lying awake listening to my father converse with his childhood best friend via telephone just outside of my closed bedroom door.

“She’s about to hit puberty,” I heard him say, “She’s started sweating in the armpits of her shirts.”

I was uncomfortable. I’d never really noticed my sweaty armpits, and I found myself dragging a couple curious fingers through that particular spongy region of my body. At that juncture of my life, puberty was some mythical stage of being, something I’d seen on film but with which I’d yet to have firsthand experience. I was vaguely excited about it because it meant I could join the popular girls in showing off the straps of my training bras; I was also vaguely terrified because it might mean I would have to start drawing on the information I’d gained in sexual education about pubic hair and periods. I wasn’t ready for that. I yearned instead for simpler days of Barbies and bloodlessness.

15 years after I started wearing deodorant in response to this physiological change, one might think that I would have worked out the angles. One would assume that I would have accepted the fact that my armpits sweat, and that, therefore, I would have done everything I’d need to do to disguise this unbecoming part of my physical being. One would be wrong.

Here’s the truth: my crevices, particularly my armpits, are sweaty. Like, really sweaty. Like, don’t respond even to the deodorant advertised to be strong enough for a man. Like, could compete with the fat man eating spicy food on a park bench in the middle of July. I know, I’m a really pretty girl. I can’t understand why I don’t have a boyfriend given my immense beauty and charm.

The unfortunate truth of my sweaty armpits sometimes sadly rears its ugly head in social situations, but those little vessels of moisture seem to be particularly on display at my place of work. I think there are approximately 3 reasons for this:

1. I drink a lot of coffee before waiting tables.

2. The owners of my restaurant like to keep the temperature at a balmy 72 degrees even though I’m running laps through hordes of people.

3. My work shirt, of the stock gray button-down variety, doesn’t breathe. At all. At. All.

Given this list of circumstances, I think it’s pretty remarkable that only my pits are disgusting. I consider it a win that I’m not coated in a fine sheen and exhibiting signs of chest and back sweat through the impermeable fabric of my uniform. I’m just saying.

The only thing worse than being sweaty and gross is being called out on being sweaty and gross, so I don’t exactly find it delightful when one of our backwaiters points out the various nastiness of my being that I’d rather pretend no one notices.

“You spilled on yourself,” he’ll say. Really? I hadn’t noticed the onslaught of disgusting dishwater when I aggressively tossed utensils into the bucket of filthy sanitizer. Thank you so much for making me aware of my plight.

Or “Hey, you’re kind of pitting out.” Wonderful. Wonderful. Not only have I failed at correctly wearing deodorant and then strategically hiding the large wet circles under my arms, I’m also going to walk around self-consciously, probably sweating more because of the induced anxiety, thinking about how everyone knows I’m the smelly kid in class. I might need to step out on the back staircase and fan myself or breathe into a bag. My life is over.

On one occasion recently, I was working with said backwaiter and, for no apparent reason, having a particularly sweaty day. My ego was feeling a little fragile, and the thought of having him bruise it further with his apt observations was a little too much. I needed a solution, so I crammed some hand towels into my armpits and walked around for the first five hours of service with weird bulges under my arms until it became dark enough for him not to notice and slow enough for him to be cut.

This didn’t do much for my productivity, however, mostly because I couldn’t raise my arms higher than eye-level for fear of dislodging my “solution.” By extension, this also meant that I couldn’t clear tables, and I couldn’t reach the shelves to put polished glassware back, kind of a problem when I’m the one called in to pinch hit at these tasks for shorter servers because of my superior height. Plus, I found myself with one hand constantly in my shirt readjusting the scratchy little receptors of sweat, and I was caught a couple of times by quizzical coworkers wondering what exactly I was doing (uh, nothing, my shirt’s just really uncomfortable right now, really).

I’m not sure why I seem to be the only one with this problem.  I don’t see other servers fanning out their pit stains.  I watch bartenders moving at lightning speed remain remarkably perspiration-free.  So what does a girl do? Do I start wearing men’s deodorant? Salt crystals? Haynes undershirts? Given the fact that I already have hideous shoes and a lumbering frame, I’m not sure adding another element of androgyny to my work persona is something that’s going to do a lot for my ability to flirt at a table, but at least it will save me from panic attacks over what my co-workers think.  It’s fun being a girl of the Amazon variety.  Everything I do is so cute.

Each night at my restaurant, after the last guest has finally drunkenly stumbled down the stairs and out the door, the staff stands around, sipping our staff drinks and polishing glassware, and talks about the male attention we’ve received. We regale each other with stories of numbers given, attempted make-outs forced, and possible dates to come. And by “we” I mean everyone but me, because this never happens to me. Ever.

I have thought about this long and hard. I don’t necessarily hurt for male attention in other walks of life. Despite my giantess size, I seem to garner my fair share of compliments and drink invitations. I don’t think I’m necessarily the hideously unattractive member of the front-of-house crew. So I think this can really only boil down to one thing: my Frankenstein shoes.

I’m a tall girl. Ergo I’ve got large feet. Like, really large. Like, shoe size ski. This is normally okay in real life because a lot of fashionable footwear producers make shoes for models and stuff so they sell size ski of their trendy products. But when it comes to restaurant work, trendy shoes don’t really cut it. For better or for worse, big, black comfortable shoes are part of the unbecoming androgynous uniform. And so while my smaller co-workers can still look dainty in their chunky Dansko clogs, I’m doomed to look like Frankenstein, clunking around in a heinously ironic Andy Warhol-esque version of what Dad used to wear to the office.

When those shoes go on my feet, they have an uncomfortable amount of control over my personality. They make me asexual. I become immune to twinkling eyes and sparkling smiles of attractive male patrons. My voice deepens. My hair goes from shiny and flippy to utilitarian and dull. My gait gets much less swishy and much more stompy. And I do not and cannot flirt.

As a result of these unsightly shoes, I lumber over to tables like Quasimodo, one eye smaller than the other, hump on my back and say, in a husky voice, “Hi, I’m Laura. Can I get you a drink?” And then I become invisible to males, a mere beer wench that fades into the background of their dining and drinking experience, unless they’re forced to look at me because my awkward limbs do something like spill a drink on them.

Sometimes I see a cute guy and I feel compelled to explain, to say something like, “Hey, seriously, I’m not Frankenstein, it’s just the shoes. I’ll take them off and blossom into a sassy shiny woman with whom you might have some sort of inclination to flirt. I’ll flip my hair, you’ll buy me a martini in an up glass, it’ll be great, I promise. I’m not a social ruh-tard. Really.”

I don’t really think that would help my cause, though. After all, no one likes palpable insecurity. So I’m just doomed to be androgynous tall awkward girl in ugly shoes, silent and alone at the end of each night, lamenting my inability to get hit on and wondering if I’m the gruesome friend. It’s cool. No big deal.  Someday, my foot-fetishless prince will come and set me free, teaching us all a valuable lesson about shallow beauty.  Until then, look out.  Frankenstein is coming to take your order.

It’s recently been established that given the right situation, I can be a total D-bag.

Wine isn’t the only subject that elicits this type of response. Apparently, anything about which I have above average knowledge initiates the same sort of transformation. In a 72-hour time period I had d-bag interactions about:

Cheese—

Standing in the St. Killian’s, the best cheese shop in Colorado, I had some sudden unstoppable urge to divulge the fact that I have tasted every cheese in their case through my work in “the industry.” The industry? What industry? The two Boulder restaurants that have employed me and exposed me to a number of cheeses? So why did this prompt the whole, “Oh, morbier, such a fun cheese.   And the Mountain Gorgonzola, so fun.” The hippy dippy woman from Vermont couldn’t have cared less, but took her opportunity to sell me $20/lb cheeses because they were “fun.” The other Laura S., who was an unfortunate witness to the entire event, was nice enough to call me out later, much as she wanted to pour her entire San Pellegrino Limonata over my head.

Skiing—

This is old news. There was a time in college when my roommate wouldn’t speak to me for a couple of days because of how much I talked about the onset of snow season. I probably used hideous words like “pow” and “bluebird day” and talked a little bit slower like some weird Colorado hippy. D-baggery related to skiing also happened last year when I came back to Colorado (which I think I was terming “the ‘rado”) for 2 weeks and became a ski Nazi, making everyone go up at the crack of dawn and come back when the lifts closed even though my typical M.O. is to ski a run, drink a beer, ski a run, drink a beer, quit for the day.

THIS year, in the true spirit of being different than everyone around me, I didn’t ski a single day until Saturday and so had kept blissfully silent on the subject for months. And then on Saturday, I put on all of my ski gear and transformed into a horrible self-righteous being bent on proving how good I am at the sport. It started with talk: “Oh, it’s okay, I don’t need to be insane and do the hard stuff. I’d MUCH rather ski with you guys and just cruise.” And then came putting my money where my mouth is and hitting the hill with insane intensity. Okay, let’s review: I have not skied in a year. I have not done a squat in a year. I have barely EXERCISED AT ALL in a year. Guess what’s not a good idea? Skiing hard in order to be a ski d-bag. I can’t walk, and I’ll probably never be invited to another ski weekend with that crew.

Politics—

I had a fascinating discussion with Ben about the economy in Boston. By “discussion” I mean Ben had a lot of really intelligent things to say about the way the government has handled the crisis, and I kept my mouth shut and listened. Obviously, I am now an expert on this subject, so I’ve been walking around spouting his talking points (uh, and direct quotes) without citing my sources. Like this weekend, on the lifts, with a lot of people who didn’t care even a little bit and wanted to talk about how good the snow was instead of Ben Bernanke.

Lady Gaga—

Sometimes I find myself defending something with overzealous devotion only to realize in the course of my diatribe that I don’t want to be positioning myself so strongly. Instead of stopping or moderating my stance, I redouble my efforts, now trying to convince myself as well as everyone around me. This is probably okay when it’s something that invites argumentative discussion. But the battle I chose this weekend was over the talent of Lady Gaga.

After I’d made the entire ski weekend crew listen to about 19 of her songs, saying, “No, seriously, guys, she’s really good, listen,” I realized this wasn’t exactly the good fight and had to let it go. But really? Lady Gaga?

No, but seriously, she’s really good.

Oh, faithful readers. I love you so so much, especially when you think I’m funny or when I want to bitch about something. And right now, I want to bitch about something. I need to tell someone, my loves, and you are the perfect people.

I am having a particular kind of week. I am having the kind of week that makes me want to throw all of my valuables into my Audi “impulse purchase” A4 and drive 2000 miles away from Boulder to a place where I know absolutely no one and, thus, can stop having the kind of week that I’m having. I will reinvent myself and dress only in classy black clothes so as to emanate an air of mystery, sitting alone in coffee shops penning poetry and tending to my herd of cats. And I will never grow my social network to what it has become in Boulder.

Let’s begin with Valentine’s Day. You may recall that I went into Valentine’s Day feeling absolutely fine. I had no broken heart, no unrequited love of which to speak, no ill feelings other than the general squeamishness I have for kitsch on any holiday. I had a delightful single people brunch that was much more 10 people making jokes and drinking mimosas than 10 people lamenting their solitude and taking shots. I had a night at work that made me feel good about my ability to do my job.

And then my “ex” came in to my place of work to have a drink. And by “ex” I mean subject of the blog entry titled “Pathetic.” And by “came in to have a drink” I mean brought the girl he’s dating who I KNOW FROM HIGH SCHOOL. So what did I do? Naturally, I engaged in an “OH MY GOD HOW ARE YOU I HAVEN’T SEEN YOU IN SO LONG” kind of conversation, didn’t make eye contact with him even one time, and then sidled on up to the bar to have a drink or 5 with a couple of the regulars, 1 of whom is the kind of person who shouldn’t intrigue me but does.

After several minutes of slightly awkward conversation that I couldn’t comfortably settle into because of my ugly work shoes, my roommate thankfully showed up to haul me off to some stupid anti-Valentine’s Day party where we drank ¼ of an unsatisfying IPA before bailing. As the night was continuing to slip downhill, we headed home, only to find ourselves binge-eating sweets and filling out the ENTIRE eHarmony questionnaire TOGETHER for ME. WHY? WHY? Well, because someone I know was recently successful on the site, and I wanted to see who eHarmony matched me up with. So after a resentful hour of filling out 9 million questions about things that are important to me, my matches FINALLY popped up. Guess who was number 1? The regular who I shouldn’t be intrigued by but am. Fuck you, eHarmony. I deleted my account immediately. What a waste.

And then there was tonight. Do you remember the Super Bad online first date? Here, allow me to refresh your memory. Sadly, the super bad online first date blog post is not the end of that storied tale. You may have noticed I’ve become a little gun shy in my recent posts on this forum. That’s because my super bad online first date FOUND the super bad online first date entry and wrote me hate mail. Heart-wrenching hate mail. And it made me feel like a really, really, really bad person. Here I am, writing things I like to write to make other people in the world laugh at my misfortune, and I’m ruining lives. I’m making it so some young man will never date again. I’m responsible for the crushing fall of some guy just trying to make it in the world. I am a bad person.

In that entry, I noted that the last person I want to see on an online first date is a current or former fling or a guy that I think is cute and want to think I’m cool. Guess who the last person I NOW want to see on an online first date is? Oh, probably the guy that hates my guts because I talked all about our super bad online first date to the whole entire universe. Probably the guy that has every incentive in the world to make any future online date in which he sees me taking part as miserable as he possibly can. I think you know where this is going.

Maybe it’s my fault. After weeks of technological exchange with an interesting young man, I agreed to return to the scene of the incompatibility crime for a cup of coffee. It was a good set up. He had some writing to do, I had some writing to do, we thought it might be nice to spend the first hour of our real life acquaintance in complete and utter silence crafting things in the written word.

I arrived early, so as to spend a few minutes typing hastily on my laptop over a large chai tea and noted that the band was pretty good. Win. And then I looked closer at the MEMBERS of the band. Who’s playing the drums? “HI MY NAME IS —-.” Yep. Yep. Our eyes met for a few horrifically awkward seconds and the panic attack started. What was I going to do? Stand firm? Lie in the bed I’d made? Pretend it wasn’t awkward? Hell no. I gulped down my large chai, effectively burning my throat and esophagus, and began the frustrating quest for another coffee house that’s open late.

This town is too small. Get me out of here.