L is for Loser

Hi, my name is Elizabeth and I have social anxiety disorder.

No really. I have no problem if I go to a party or an event and I know people, but stick me in a room with a bunch of people I don't know and I freeze up like a deer in headlights. It's not pretty. And to make it worse, I often put myself in situations, like last night, where I act like a complete and total loser.

In my defense, I thought that I would be meeting someone that I know last night. Otherwise, I wouldn't have spent $75 for the privilege of drinking apple martinis, and wandering around the 69th Armory looking at stuff I can't buy. Okay, truth time, I was also hoping to run into Auction guy. You might remember from a previous post that I met auction guy at a friend's house, and I really liked him.

So there I am at the event, and there he is, and guess what?

He doesn't freaking remember me! Yep, has no clue who I am. Looked right through me. So, I guess I'm not as cute as I think I am. I definitely wasn't memorable to him, despite the fact that we held hands in a circle at one point during the dinner.

Okay, so here comes the part where I should be wearing a Scarlet letter L on my purple turtleneck, which by the way is a perfect look if you're small-chested. Really, turtlenecks make you look like you're actually busty. It's why I wear them alot during the winter. It's my shot at having La Belle Poitrine, also known as cleavage without a miracle bra.

Where was I? Oh right. I'm a loser. Instead of just going up and introducing myself and mentioning where we had met (something I've done before with other people), I did nothing. It didn't help that he showed up with an entourage of women. I felt like I was in an episode of the Bachelor, trying to get the guy's attention.

But then two words: Burberry Chick

You know, tall, blonde, young, stacked wearing a Burberry tartan miniskirt that probably cost half of what I make in a week.

Dude has a girlfriend, which my friend didn't tell me about probably because she didn't have the 411 on the situation. Sometimes without meaning to, your friends give you misinformation like the tabloids, only they're not trying to boost their circulation.

So there I am stalking this guy around the Modern Show, like Pepe le Pew after the poor black cat with the white stripe that he thinks is a female skunk.

On the upside, several women and a couple of gay guys complimented me on my skirt, black, pleated with a net overlay with sequins that I bought back when Express actually made clothes that people wanted to wear, as opposed to the expensive H&M knock-offs they're making now. FYI, Express stop making crap! Anyway, my legs were wasted on this crowd. Not to toot my own horn, but I have a great set of gams. Not Stacey Keibler 42 inches, but they're nicely toned and shapely. Ex-sweetie pie once told me it was the first thing he noticed about me.

Back to my story, so I finally decide to get the courage to say something, and he's leaving! With his entourage! I thought of going up to him then, but I was afraid I was going to get all Allie G. on him and talk about my rotting eggs and demand to know if my boobs were too small. So I didn't do anything.

Truthfully I couldn't be more pathetic unless I tried to cut off my head with a butter knife.

A friend sent me an email the other day called Women are Like Apples. I'm sure most of you have seen it but it bears repeating:


The best ones are at the top of the tree. Most men don't want to reach for the good ones because they are afraid of falling and getting hurt. Instead, they sometimes take the apples from the ground that aren't as good, but easy. The apples at the top think something is wrong with them, when in reality, they're amazing. They just have to wait for the right man to come along, the one who is brave enough to climb all the way to the top of the tree.

So I guess I'm still waiting for the right man to climb my tree.