An Analysis of my Social Ineptitude

Picture the average 20-something college kid. Got it? Ok. Now, picture their Friday and Saturday night. What are they doing? Probably "going out." Am I right? Lets say for arguments sake I'm right. Going out is kind of what college kids do. Out can be a number of different places; bars, parties, social events, a concert, a friends house. Out can even be staying in and inviting other people to come to you. One thing going out definitely does not involve is sitting in your bedroom, alone, reading books and watching some-what-less-than-legally downloaded movies on your computer. Which is what I do, pretty much every weekend. You think I exaggerate? I don't. If I am in Salt Lake there is an 96 percent chance that both my Friday and Saturday will consist of me in my room by myself doing not a whole lot. If I'm in Mapleton there is a 78 percent chance that either my Friday or my Saturday will consist of me in my living room, alone, doing not a whole lot. But why do I do these things? I'm young, energetic, mildly charismatic, and can hold my own in most social situations. I have friends, I guess. Why is it that I spend my weekends away from the excitement of the world and the company of others? That my good blog readers is precisely what I plan on working out today in this mildly psycho-analytic blog.

I could make excuses. I could say I have homework to do. Which is true. I always have homework. But I never do it on the weekends. Ever. I does not happen. I could say that I work a lot and am tuckered out by the time I get home. Also true. I do work a lot, and I am usually at least a little tired when I get home. But that's no good either because people who work longer and harder than me still get up and go out on the weekends. I could say that I just enjoy being alone with my thoughts weekend after weekend. This is true too. Once I'm in my PJ's all snuggled up in bed watching some horrible chick flick or catching up on TV, or reading a book I quite enjoy myself. It's relaxing, and gets my mind off things. But to say I prefer it would be a lie. Because there's always that moment. That moment right before I cast off my presentable clothes and crawl into my not-to-see-the-light-of-day clothes where I find myself pausing, hoping, waiting, and wishing that I would get a text saying "Jessica, come out and play! Come be social and engage in age appropriate activities with us!" Then the moment passes, I throw on my leggings and XXL men's long sleeved shirt and I get down to doing nothing.

But Jessica! You just said that every weekend you wish that someone would call you. That means you want to go out! You want to be social! You want to participate in the normal activities of your age group! Why don't you just call some friends and go out and party? That my imaginary mind companion is precisely the problem. I want to go out and do stuff, however I don't want to call people and put together a group to do said stuff. And it's not just laziness that prevents me from picking up the phone. It's fear. Yes you read correctly. I am afraid of calling people and asking them to hang out with me. Does that seem silly? It is, but it is also the unfortunate truth. The problem with me is that I am a pleaser. I hate feeling like I've disappointed people. So when I think about calling friends and asking them to hang out with me I am then bombarded with a thousand nagging thoughts. Thoughts like "what if they already have plans? You know what, they probably already have plans and then they're going to be sad that they have to tell me no and I don't want anyone to be sad." Or "what if they don't have plans but they don't want to hang out with me but feel like that have to. I don't want to be an obligation." Or "what are we going to do, what if what I want to do is lame, what if I can't produce an evening of fun?" All these thoughts and more whiz around my head crippling my desire to call anyone and forcing me into an evening of sweats, sweets, and back episodes of Doctor Who.

So what can I do about this completely irrational fear that any person I call and ask to hang out with me is going to have a miserable time in my company and then hate me forever? I don't know. Seriously, I have no idea. I guess I just need to put on my big girl pants and start calling people and making an effort at being social. But who wants to wear big girl pants when they can wear stretchy pants? I guess the moral of the story is, I have issues, and if you want to hang out with me you should text me or something. Because I definitely won't be texting you.

The Bird

Usually when one returns to one's place of residence after a period of absence, whether one has been visiting one's hometown to enjoy the holiday season or on has been in a psychiatric institution to enjoy mental instability, one expects one's place of residence to be more or less the same. Sure, some dishes will have moved, the fridge will be filled with different sorts of foods, etc. One does not expect to walk into one's living room/kitchen area to see a caged bird sitting on the counter. However that is exactly what happened to me when I walked into my house in Sugarhouse after a period of absence, I'll leave it to you the reader to decide whether I was home for the holidays or recovering from a lapse in my mental faculties. Thats right, there was a bird, more specifically a White Bellied Caiques, in a cage that was occupying a good percentage of the counter space that I use to prepare food on a nightly basis. A living, breathing squawking bird. In a cage. On the counter. In the place that I live. Whaaaaaat?

Needless to say, I was not, and am not (as the owner of the bird has yet to relocate it), ok with the current situation. I don't like birds. On a good day I think that they are creatures, who look alright off in the distance, and who can fly which is pretty neat, as long as they don't get up in my bidness. On a bad day I think birds are dirty, ugly, stupid creatures who exist to fill their bellies with annoying bugs and seeds that need spreading and to fill my belly with their meat. On a really bad day I think that they are Satan's messengers that will one day band together and attack the human race in a relentless and merciless fashion. Thank you Hitchcock/Du Maurier. Why anyone would want to own a bird is beyond me. However, I can accept that there are people out there who don't mind keeping deranged psycho killers in waiting in their home. It's a personal choice, and people have the right to make it. As long as those people don't keep their winged rats ON MY COUNTER! Seriously, it's gross. I believe it is molting right now, and it isn't the neatest of eaters, or defecators. As a consequence I can't use my counter to do anything for fear of getting bird e coli or something. Also it's loud. Every morning as I stumble blearily up the stairs it greets me with a piercing noise that never fails to scare the bejeebers out of me. It has also been shrieking incessantly for the last 45 minutes. The walls are thin. It is annoying. I hate it.

Basically the point of this is to say, I don't like birds. I just don't. I really don't like birds in the place where I'm living. If however there has to be a bird in my place of residence I don't want the bird to be positioned where it renders my counter space unusable, and annoys the hell out of me. I want it in a private room where I don't have to see it, or think about it attacking me in the night. And if things don't change in the very near future either the bird or I is going to meet a very unhappy end.