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.
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 guess what, I even got married -- to someone who was also awkward at times:
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?