Extroverts win

I listen to lots of podcasts and I read lots of books on the topic of introverts. I love introverts, I get them and I get it. I understand myself and I have self awareness. But I still get that pang of pain in the knowledge that I’ll never be able to do that, when an extrovert enters and wins over a whole room in an instant. Connections that would take me months of steady effort, appear to be won in seconds.

Being the friend of an extrovert isn’t always fun too. If you become known as “the quiet one” you might find yourself always answering questions like “how’s your extrovert friend? The really fun one who we all love to be around more than you?”, ok they don’t really say that but it’s sometimes how it feels when you’re questioned. Sometimes they do win more friends. Sometimes they get on better with your own friends, and their friendships blossom, and if you’re honest, it’s kind of understandable that everyone is more captivated by them. In work settings the extroverts do well with all the new faces, challenging topics can be bullshitted there way through that little bit more easily. I imagine their job interviews are a bit less draining for them; you want a presentation? Sure. At school they are more likely to be picked; want to select a lead for a play? Can we have a show of hands for the extroverts please? But don’t they know of all the introverted actors? Maybe, but theres no time to check if the introverts want in, we are too distracted by the extrovert over there.  I guess the extroverts are always more memorable.

When I got a tattoo I was so awkward. People asked me “did it hurt?”, “did the healing take a long time?”, but the truth is the part that was painful was sitting there in a tattoo parlour full of strangers not knowing what to say or do for all those hours. Opting for silence, I became increasingly aware of how odd that was a few hours in. “Shall I speak? It’s been too long now. It would be weird to suddenly speak now. What could I say at this point? Ok I’ll ask a question about tattooing.” I ask the question that I don’t really need an answer to. “Oh cool” I come back with, mind suddenly blank as to how to proceed the convo.

A lady walks in. Short blonde hair with pink streaks running through it. Slim jeans and floppy laced converse teamed with a T-shirt listing gig dates for a band. She looked the part. Climbing onto the parlour chair she started to ask her artist questions so effortlessly that I caught myself staring at her. Realising I probably looked like a creepy Wednesday Adams, I looked away but kept listening. Simple questions really, but she was so loud, and so apparently unafraid as to how the question would sound or who would hear. Perhaps somewhat oversharing she explained how her family had sued a morgue that held her late grandmothers body, because someone had managed to break in and steal her Grandmothers ring, snapping her fingers. The money she got was partly funding her tattoo. I heard a lot from the artist too. Al these stories neither of them would know about each other if they didn’t ask. Perhaps here I am intermeshing confidence and extrovertism, which of course are not that same. As she exchanged Instagram addresses with the room, she left with a loud and hearty goodbye, and as she departed I was again drawn back to the awkward silence I felt so responsible for.

Write a short story? I’ll just eat the apple.

“Your homework this week is to take an apple each home with you. Look at it for a minute and then write. Then take a bite out of the apple and describe it, without using the word apple”, said the class teacher, handing out long packs of rosey apples across the classroom. I was in a class about writing short stories, in body at least. My mind had drifted off about half an hour into the two hour session. They all looked so eager, pens poised in anticipation of the next top tip, half lit smiles on faces. Either they had amazing poker faces or they were really taking this all in. “Maybe I don’t want to write after all, cos I don’t talk like these people, and I can’t listen to this man and woman talk at me for any longer,” I thought as I realised the room we were in reminded me of a dreaded work meeting – another occasion where people talk at me, and I’m gone within minutes, thinking about anything and everything other than what they’re saying. I guess it’s a handy thing to do in situations like long runs, where the drift off helps to pass the time. I guess sometimes we all feel we don’t belong, but this occasion reminded me of feelings I had at school. I felt like a kid again in that writing class, I was fidgety and wriggly, as if I waiting for my mum to collect me when the bell goes in half an hour, feeling like I was forced to be in the room. It was kind of funny when a red apple, a symbol of school and teachers came out. I started to ask myself why I signed up for a class like this, who was I kidding? I’m no writer. But perhaps it was the format. Does anyone like to be spoken at? It actually makes me slightly angry with the person talking at me, but then guilty as I know that’s not very nice!

I left the class, looked into my bag and decided to take a chomp out of the apple, at that point deciding I might not go back to the remaining 3 classes, but that I do like apples.