Bringing Awkward Back

Everyone always talks about how socially awkward they are. And yes, at times, we all are. But I think I'm more awkward than most. Take my absolute inability to make eye contact. Or maintain a conversation about something other than myself without fumbling my hands or tripping over things or accidentally falling asleep. Or not blush when my name is spoken. Or the name Allison is ever spoken. "Gah, ME, WHAT?"
After a phone conversation with Planned Parenthood reps yesterday- you know, in an attempt to make a great impression and pitch my idea for my integrative thesis project, essentially deciding the fate of my second semester in grad school- that went something like this "HI let me immediately jump into my pitch giggle giggle OH you're just a volunteer answering phones hee hee snort nervous voice OH see I just don't even know if what I want to do is possible la la oh it is SUPER DUPER giggle breathy voice haven't stopped talking at all oh, you want my NAME? Oh hee hee sorry guess I should have told you that earlier!" ...so, yes, after this phone call, I took a breather to reflect on the awkward moments of my life. Not the embarrassing ones, as there is a difference (getting a bicycle wheel thrust between your legs while walking, then having it catapult you forward, landing in a heap in front of Tech, was NOT awkward, ok? It was humiliating. People confuse awkwardness with other emotions/acts, but let me be clear, awkwardness involves your being at fault, so here the bike wheel was awkward, I guess, or the bike rider who LEFT ME IN A HEAP and rode off, but hey, I'm over it...clearly).
And I came across what stands out in my memory as social awkwardness in its purest form. To this day the upcoming memory gives me chills and makes me blush:

When I was a sophomore I was pretty much massively in love with this guy Lew. After getting a mutual friend to give him my screen name with the implication that I Want His Bod, and us engaging in two months of endless IM bantering (I'm so much better online than in life, at...everything in life), we finally met up for a vodka-infused-get-all-the-way-to-second-base rendezvous at Jen's grandmother's friend's house. Anyway, the time finally came when Lew (who was a senior, and effortlessly cool, and had millions of friends in other places and absolutely no motivation to hang out with a lame sophomore who rolled her eyes due to an astigmatism and was a big ol' whoppin' virgin) made the plans to come over to my house when my parents were out. When the car dropping him off pulled up I broke out into nervous sweats, practically soaking through my mustard-colored "Ride 'Em Cowboy" Abercrombie shirt Lauren had gotten me for HannuChristmas that seemed so adorably appropriate for this night. (Note: I wasn't planning on losing my v-card to him and did not, but I was under the impression that no guy is immune from being turned on by mustard-colored innuendo). But Abercrombie shirts are notoriously tight in the armpit so you're really asking for it. So he knocks on my door, and completely I lose my cool. I had images of racily jumping on him and wrapping my legs around his waist in the doorway, or seductively running my hands up his scrawny bod while he pulled me close. Either scenario involved a quick journey to my bedroom. Did this happen? No. I opened the door, yelled "HI! WANNA GO ON A TOUR OF MY HOUSE?" And proceeded to take him all over, with a mid-point stop in the basement. The highlight of this, and what is memorable to me as an experience of my insane awkwardness, is when I took him even further away from the bedroom to show him our cedar closet in the basement.

That's right: "Here's the cedar closet! I like, didn't know we even had it, but it keeps off-season stuff smelling good!"
I vividly remember the look on his face. The look of boredom, impatience, confusion, wanting to shoot himself, pity towards me- the look of a guy who had clearly taken valuable time out of his night with the simple expectation of being fellated and is now face to face with a rack fulla winter coats.

Soon after that we had the "and thiiiis is my bedroom!" unsexy Vanna White moment and we proceeded to very uncomfortably get to third base this time. He left that night and we never hooked up again and I'm convinced the reason he didn't fall madly in love with me is because I'll always be The Girl Who Bragged About Her Cedar Closet in his head.

The end.