The above video*- it looks quite gross, but it’s funny, right? The seemingly innocent situation, the sweat, their faces.

Well, I have a confession. I am that guy, sometimes. Not that I’m a part-time guy, or that I suffer from sweat patches or premature sweating, or pull frog-like faces in front of guys I’m interested in, I hope. But sometimes, I can get quite nervous when speaking to someone I fancy.

I thought I had left those adolescent days behind me:

  • I shouldn’t avoid eye contact, glaring at the floor with my eyes wide open, like some crazy woman,
  • I can’t laugh hysterically and loudly like I’m on drugs at every-single-thing the person says, to the point where the guy is deafened,
  • I can’t literally runaway and hide behind a bush or a tree to recuperate anymore after having the smallest of small-talk conversations with ‘that guy’,
  • I can no longer ‘playfully’ punch a guy’s arm until he bruises,
  • and despite what some people think, in particular my sister’s ex-lecturer, I can blush, fool, in particular when I have red wine, but I should stop blushing and grinning like a cheshire cat in these types of situations.

I can’t do any of these things anymore because, you know, I’m a BIG woman now, dammit! I am smooth, suave and sophisticated. Well, I’m not really, but I can lie to myself, right? This illusion was dispelled when I went to a spoken word event.

So, I was sitting down in the basement of a pub with the lights dimmed down low, conversing with my cousin, when a particularly handsome guy caught my eye. He’s one of the night’s performers. His words, and his stature, were quite mesmorising as he bared his soul, or someone else’s soul, for all to see. *bites fist and mimics crying*

My cousin said: “He’s alright.” He’s “alright”???!!!

So anyway, the event finished, and I worked the room with my networking skills, as best as I could, anyway. And you know, it was going fine, until I got to ‘him’.

I confidently flagged him down from across the room. Ok, so maybe he was just a few paces away from me.

‘Ok, Monique, think of something deep and meaningful to say,’ I told myself.

“I er… really liked your… er… poems?” I said in what must have been the faintest of voices. I personally thought what I’d said had boomed around the room.

“Sorry?” he replied.

‘Oh. My. Days. He was one of the poets, right?… It was him- he DID recite his poems, just speak a bit louder,’ I said to myself.

“Your poems- I really liked them,” I exclaimed.

“Thank you,” he beamed, but I could tell he was thinking: ‘What is this little girl on?’

Awkward silence.

I struggled to recall a poem- just one of his poems, or even what I liked about his set in general, but the rush of blood to my head prevented me from thinking clearly.

For networking purposes, I usually ask for some sort of contact details. But I decided to ask for this instead:

“Do you have a website?” I said, with a bit more confidence now.

“Yes it’s blah, blah, blah”, and he proceeded to write it in my phone, which I had just handed to him.

“Thanks. And your gigs, they’re all listed on there, right?”

“Yes they are.” He said something else, but my mind just went blank, so I can’t recall what was said. The word ‘go’ kept resounding in my head.

“Ok, thanks. Bye,” I said, and I bolted towards my cousin. I spoke to a few more people, and then we left.

Just before we left, another of the night’s poets was particularly popular, and a throng of giggling girls surrounded him in their dozens.

‘Grow a pair, you groupies,’ I said, to myself.

So, to take my own advice, I must grow a pair… of female… balls… That sounded a lot better in my head. Meh.

shy

*I do not endorse the use of Lynx to increase your confidence when speaking to the opposite sex. The ‘Lynx effect’ is just a clever marketing ploy, and is one I wish I had thought of to make me filthy rich.

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