I’m awkward. Chances are, you already know that. I mean, the
blog is called Awkward Gal. And
that’s for a reason. But I’m fully aware of how awkward I am—almost too aware
sometimes, because then I fret about how awkward I am and that makes me even more awkward.
It’s a vicious cycle.
But one of my biggest weaknesses and confidence-deterrents
is also a constant sort of amusement for me. Ask anyone that knows me and
they’ll tell you that I have a pretty darn good sense of humor about all of my
awkwardness. I’m not putting myself down by calling my blog “Awkward Gal,” I’m
honestly in on the joke. (Also, note that I tried to call my blog Awkward Girl,
but that was taken by someone who hasn’t updated in years. But isn’t “gal” a
kind of awkward, out-of-date word? It fits.) I’m usually the first to call
myself out when I do something awkward. I laugh about it—a lot.
But people I don’t know very well don’t know how to react
when I call myself “socially awkward.” Their first instinct is always to turn
on that consoling denial mode… “No you’re
not! You’re totally not! You’re just – you’re not awkward!”
Hey. I get it. You don’t want to hurt my feelings. But
really, I am. I’m awkward. I’m okay with it. You can be okay with it too. Laugh
about it with me, tease me about it, call me out on it. I mean, don’t be cruel,
obviously, I am rather
self-conscious, but if I say something that’s slightly uncomfortable and follow
it up with “well, that was awkward,” you can agree. I promise I won’t hate you
for it.
Well, probably.
