The views expressed in this column are those of the author and do not represent Austinist as a whole. -- The Editors
Over the weekend, I did one of those things I have trouble doing: I hit on someone.
See, I went to a party last Friday. A theme party. A '90s theme party. While I'm dubious about whether or not the '90s are far enough in the past to merit such treatment, I did the best I could. My “costume” of ripped jeans, Doc Martens (authentic, purchased in 1997), spaghetti strap tanktop, streetfair choker (1996), and nylon Fossil Brand purse (1995) topped with messy, Reality Bites-era pigtails seemed a bit too close to my current daily uniform, but the party revealed that most of the guests had apparently had similar problems.
While a few people, like the handful of Monica Lewinskies, had managed attire that clearly deviated from their usual streetwear, most people looked not so much like they were wearing costumes but like they hadn't bought pants in a few years. There were a lot of carpenter jeans.
Right. So, there I was, at this party with my pigtails and a few friends, surrounded by people wearing chest-striped sweaters and the like. Feeling a bit low energy on the social front, I camped out with one of my friends in the middle of a row of lawn chairs. We sipped our beers and chatted with whomever decided to take a load off in the adjacent seating. At some point, one of the taller wearers of a chest-striped shirt ambled over and collapsed in one of the chairs. I talked to him a bit before he wound up talking to my friend's boyfriend about how they're both from Lubbock, then wandered off. I didn't think much of it, but a few hours later, as my friends and I were leaving, he caught me. “You're leaving?” he said, “We didn't get get a chance to talk.”
I'm not sure what came over me, but I blurted out exactly what popped into my head, which was, “Well, that's not my fault, I tried. And, it's too bad, too. You're cute.” He went all deer in headlights on me, though, so I made my escape, trailed by my friend and her boyfriend, both of whom confirmed that the guy in question had definitely been flirting with me in the lead up.
Although disappointed, I understand what happened. I really do. Unless there is a hand placed on my upper thigh or somewhere else inappropriate, I will not register that someone is into me. It's not that I'm stupid, exactly. It's that I grew up shy to a degree best described as “painful” or “excruciating,” and even as an adult, those years spent avoiding eye contact with the world shape how I act. I rarely, if ever, assume someone is hitting on me, and then when they do so blatantly enough for it to register, I'm often too shell-shocked to proceed. The look that descended over that guy's face on Friday was one I know intimately.
Of course, by the time the awkward pause might have passed, I'd lost my momentum and scampered off. I was already out on a limb, and I couldn't bring myself to creep further out on the branch and give him my number or ask for his. Though, perhaps that's for the best – knowing how awkward I am on the phone, I can't imagine how we'd get through a conversation. Maybe I'll just blame the party – perhaps being at an event reminiscent of the time during which I was 13 triggered some sort of backslide. If anyone catches me biting my nails to the quick or writing Beatles lyrics on my notebooks, we'll know.
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Glad you enjoyed our party :)
Very much so! I had a lovely time.
HOW COME JUB WASN'T INVITED? THAT DEPRESSES ME.
you mean its not 1998 anymore?