As the younger generations have trotted off to school over
the past few weeks, I have been feeling a little school-ish myself. I graduated
college two and a half years ago (am I really that old??? :S) and although I do
a fair amount of “self-learning,” I honestly miss school. The glossy textbooks, freshly sharpened Number 2’s, and
even the gag-arific stench of perfume-drenched adolescents.
So in honor of school children everywhere, I’m going to tap
into my practically useless knowledge of scientific theory and pose a
hypothesis:
Everyone is awkward.
In order to test my hypothesis, I’ll need some support from
my [rather limited] readership (you). While I know my small sample size will
never get this theory into the mainstream scientific community, I do hope to
bring some awareness to the idea by asking you all to “Like” or “Share” on
Facebook, “Pin” on Pinterest, or comment “Heck yes!” on this blog. If you
really want to share your enthusiasm, I suggest clicking the “Like” button and
holding it down for a really, really long time—that’s what I do.
My theory has developed over a lifetime of first-hand
experiences. Consider, for a moment, these examples of my awkwardness:
*NOTE: The names of other persons involved in my awkwardness
will be omitted for their protection.*
I started young. By the third grade, I was a little on the
chubby side, insisted on wearing my long, stringy hair down all the time (how
else would people admire its obvious beauty?), and wore horse t-shirts akin to those
of Napoleon Dynamite to school. Tucked
in. That same year, I obtained a large, round pair of glasses. I was
awkward-looking even among awkward-looking third graders.
 |
| My favorite awkward shirt. |
To make things even more awkward, I carried stuffed animals
everywhere, was obsessed with horses, and was convinced life would be better if
I avoided all things female. My friends and I crawled around on our hands and
knees at recess, pretending to be horses, until we were in middle school. One
of our classmates even christened us “The Horsey People.” And he still called
us that in high school.
As the awkwardness of my peers turned into the orneriness of
pre-teendom, I remained awkward.
 |
| My poor brother, smothered in my awkwardness. |
Soak it up, people. Every last drop. And I still took my
favorite stuffed animal to school with me half the time.
And then I got chubbier, and still wore glasses, and
got braces, and “went out” with a couple of equally awkward boys. Two awkward
teenagers holding hands on the bus does not make them any less awkward as
individuals.
 |
| Me, trying not to look awkward with my friends while styling pigtails and too much eyeliner. |
And then I was in high school, and my life hadn’t gone the
way I planned, and I wasn’t as cool as I had once imagined I would be. But I started
to realize something. People still liked me. I had friends. And they seemed to
enjoy a good portion of my awkwardness. So I started to own it. And everything changed.
 |
| Yay, awkward! |
So what I guess I’m really getting at with this whole
hypothesis thing is, yes, everyone is awkward – but it’s okay. And the sooner you can own it, the sooner your experiences,
oddly enough, stop being so awkward.
I still have my moments – I say things I shouldn’t, sometimes I laugh when I
should be quiet, and I’m pretty sure I still embarrass the heck out of my
parents. But I am owning it. I apologize when I feel it’s needed, and don’t
apologize when I don’t.
I am content.
And we're awkward together. And I hope we're teaching our kids to be their own special kind of awkward. But is
that even really a question?
.jpg)
