Weirdo: (n) a person whose dress or behavior seems strange or eccentric.
I got an email this morning that made my skin crawl. It wasn't about spiders or bloody injuries or some creepy foreboding message telling me that I and my entire family would perish in a horrific ski gondola accident if I didn't forward that email to 37 people within 3 seconds or anything like that. It was, however, an invitation to sign up for a class. A class for parents or family members who have a girl in dance classes at our local dance studio.
Let me preface the rest of this rant by saying that I love the dance studio at which my daughter takes classes. The owners are a lovely couple that my husband has known for years because he used to work with the husband, and I really like the wife, and I don't have anything bad to say about them or their studio so don't think that's what this post is about. This post is about ME. Duh...isn't everything?
I have an abject fear of social gatherings. I just do. I don't do parties, I get nauseated just receiving an invitation to a Pampered Chef or Premiere Jewelry or Thirty-One party, and class functions at the kids' schools are suffered through with me praying for it to hurry and be over so no one will notice how bad I'm sweating and that no one will talk to me so I don't stutter and say something stupid like, "I have chips!" when the conversation is most definitely not about chips. (...yes, I really did that once)
Anyway, this email described something that made me flash back to my 8th and 9th grade years that were spent at a private Christian school that brought my dorky unpopular self about as much misery as could possibly be wrought upon me by the good (and popular) Christian teenagers attending school with me.
Here's a summation of what the email said: Moms! Grandmas! Aunties! Come learn how to do the perfect hair and makeup for your child/grandchild/niece for their upcoming recital! You will receive almost two hours of incredible instruction and learn how to create three different hairstyles and the perfect makeup for your girl! And who wouldn't want some sweets while enjoying this time with your fellow dance moms? Come sign up now before the class fills up!
Now, let me re-write that as it was received by my brain: Hey, you! Yeah, you, insecure non-competitive, non-dancing dance mom! Come sign up to sit in a tiny room for approximately two hours with all of the other dance moms (you know, the seemingly ultra-competitive stay-at-home moms who won't look me in the eye when I show up a couple minutes late to pick up my sweet daughter who is not quite as put-together as the other girls - I mean, hey, her dad gets her ready for class since I'm still at work when it starts and I'm sorry but sometimes that doesn't work out so well for her), and together you will all learn how to perfect the hair and makeup (makeup? wtf? she's only 8!) for your little dancer while enjoying yummy sweet treats (translation: my hypoglycemic daughter will go completely effing apeshit from all the sugar she ingests while I sweat and stutter and desperately try to make normal small talk with someone, anyone, even if it's the plants in the corner or the magazine rack) and won't that be lovely? (lovely = are we doing jello shots?!) Hurry and act now so the class won't fill up before you have a chance to reenact your worst childhood fear of being locked in a room with a bunch of good-looking women who all somehow seem to be able to form coherent sentences and have their shit AND their child's shit together!!
So, there's a little insight into the crazy that happens in my brain on a daily basis. I have no idea how to conquer it and honestly, I'm beginning to grow quite fond of it. It's like a pet. My crazy little pet. It would most likely be a chinchilla. I'm going to stop writing now.