Play Dates, Crippling Shyness, and Me

If you know me, but not well enough to have married me, emerged from my womb, given birth to me, or grown up in the same house as I did, there are two things you should know:

1. I love you.  For real.
2. I am terrified of you.

Things have been this way for as long as I can remember.  I say "as long as I can remember" because my parents tell me that I was an outgoing, friendly and charming baby, waving at complete strangers from the comfort of my stroller, calling out "Hi-ch!" to everyone I met.  

My parents might be liars.  

My first memories involve melting inconspicuously behind the nearest parental leg the minute I was introduced to someone new, assuming that everyone that smiled at me was secretly judging me for being young, ignorant, and possibly ugly, and shaking in terror whenever I was forced to pick up the telephone.*

This isn't to say that I haven't developed some social skills.  For example, I no longer hide behind the nearest adult's calves in frightening social situations.

I have found much more sophisticated hiding spots.

Behind my hand.  A more sophisticated
hiding spot.

In fact, I have actually had people act surprised when I tell them that I suffer from social anxiety.   So I must be good at acting like a well-adjusted, socially competent adult.  But having children has introduced me to a whole new social scenario for which I have no coping mechanisms whatsoever: the dreaded "Play Date."

The mere phrase sets my heart racing.  This is partially due, of course, to the fact that someone decided--at some point between when I was a child and this present moment--to give what we used to call "having a friend over to play" a terror-inducing name.  Think about it, "first date," "blind date," "due date," are all frightening concepts even for non-neurotic, normal people.  The name "play date" evokes an ancient terror that dates back to the very first awkward dinner and a movie.  On the other hand, I doubt very much that non-neurotic, normal people, have a significant change in blood pressure and a fight or flight response (I choose flight) that rivals that of most woodland creatures at the mere mention of "play dates."**  I think those things happen to me because I'm crazy.  

This is no help to my beloved children, the eldest of whom could use some practice developing her social skills (no, Dictator, people will not want to be your friend if your first hour of playing is spent going over the minutia of the lengthy list of playtime rules you have created), the youngest of whom shares none of my inhibitions ("Look!!!  A FRIEND!!" she yells upon spying someone under the age of 12 in the grocery store, "Be my FRIEND!  We can PLAY!!!").

As such, I've come up with a list of helpful things that I can do to get myself through the horrors of my children's play dates:

1. Make my kids make the phone calls.  I have a friend who does this and it seems to work.  Kids are adorable and their social awkwardness is still acceptable.  Who can say no to the Anarchist?   No one.  That's who.
2. Try to have most play dates with children of people who are already my friends.  These people are already aware of what a nut I am and, for some reason, do not seem to care.  This makes the whole situation of forcing them to spend time with me/my children way less stressful.
3. If my children insist on choosing their own friends, attempt to steer them towards friends whose parents are either just as neurotic as I am, or who are way more outgoing than I am.  That way, they'll either understand why I'm shaking like a leaf when I drop the Dictator off to play, or they simply won't notice/care.  
4. If sticking around during a play date--I still haven't figured out the "should I stay or should I go" rules of play dates yet, so if anyone wants to clue me in, I'd be ever so grateful--locate emergency exits as soon as possible.  Also, map the locations of the nearest adult legs, as these still make good hiding spots in a pinch.
5. If all else fails, hand my children off to better parents and become the cave-dwelling hermit I secretly am deep down inside.

I admit that there are probably better/healthier ways to deal with my anxiety.  Maybe someday I'll regain the courage to enter the Anarchist's preschool classroom grinning like a fool, waving, and yelling "Hi-ch!" at every parent I encounter.  In the meantime, I'll try to calm the heart palpitations that I'm currently experiencing as I wait for a nice mom of one of the Anarchist's little friends to call about that-which-shall-not-be-named.  Let's just say that, if I can bring myself to pick up the phone when she calls, the Anarchist might be able to "have a friend over to play," that is, if I can stop hyperventilating long enough to make that happen.  

*Actually, my very first memory is of a dream in which a rabid wolf that lived in the laundry closet adjacent to our kitchen attacked me as I ran past in a desperate bid to get out the door to Chuck E. Cheese.  The dream closed with a vivid image of the laundry wolf gnawing happily on my severed arm as I deliberated over whether or not to go to Chuck E. Cheese limbless.  I know you wanted to hear about that.

**As a side note, I would make an excellent gazelle, as my ability to turn and flee danger--i.e. a person walking in my general direction, the ringing of my telephone, etc.--can only be described as graceful and awe-inspiring.

confessions of a recovering hypochondriac

This year, as cold and flu season rolls around I am behaving in a seemingly normal fashion.  Both my kids have had flu shots, but I haven't had time to get mine yet.  I wash my hands regularly, but sometimes I forget to keep them away from my face.  I appreciate it when other people cover their coughs, but I'll get over it if they don't.

If the above paragraph seems unremarkable to you, then you obviously weren't one of the blessed few who got to spend last cold and flu season with me.  You see, last year I had, in layman's terminology, hypochondria.  Or as the psych professionals would call it, "health related anxiety.  Or as the Bureaucrat would probably put it, Crazygirlwhothinksshe'sgoingtodieprettymuchconstantlyitis. A selfish, crazy, evil little old lady didn't cover her cough correctly in the grocery store?  She was sure to be infected with Tuberculosis (H1N1 was for sissies...I had already "died" of it six times over) and I was next.  The small paper cut on my finger that was persistently stingy was probably going to usher in my last days on earth, because you can't have a paper cut without a serious blood infection.  And what about that time I got "chronic, slow-onset bacterial meningitis?"*  Sounds like a blast, no?  Turns out I slept funny on my neck and it was just a little sore...or was it?

Vanquishing mold in a more recent super-crazy moment.  No, it didn't kill me, but I'm convinced that it almost did.

The good news is, even though I still get a touch paranoid from time to time, the worst of it seems to be over.  I caught myself getting a little nervous after taking the Anarchist to the pediatrician for an ear infection. (The Anarchist, on the other hand was totally unfazed, having received her much cherished, post-appointment "lolly.")  What if I caught it, it developed and got worse, and it was never treated (because no doctor worth their salt believes an adult has an ear infection)?  And then it would spread to my brain, and of course I would probably die of bacterial meningitis brought on by medical neglect...oh woe is me, etc.  But this is just a temporary foray into paranoia (I think).  I haven't been to my doctor in almost a year, so the receptionists can no longer think of me as "that nice crazy girl."  My kidneys, liver and heart are of little concern to me now.  And my hands no longer bleed from over-washing.

The Anarchist appears unconcerned that she suffers from an infection so near to her brain. 

Still, I kind of wish I wasn't forever being inundated with "helpful" health information.  I could do without the posters plastered all over the pediatrician's office warning of whooping cough dangers.  And the Christmas tree in the park festooned with the warning signs of esophageal cancer/imminent doom really felt over-the-top.  But maybe that's just me.  Because I may be getting better...but I'm still a crazy person.  Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go wash my hands.  I have the strangest feeling that this keyboard is covered with a rare and deadly bacteria...


*I made this rare and deadly disease up myself by mashing two actual rare and (pretty) deadly diseases together.  Sure it doesn't exist (yet).  But there's always a first!