Episode 3 - Tea and Canadians

I almost had a panic attack in church last Sunday. Husband and I have only been to two services at the new church we've been going to, and we stick out like clueless tourists. The church building is small, and its congregation is about to burst its seams. So once we walk in the doors there's a gauntlet of people packed in so tight you can't even breathe without sucking in a "Glad to see you!" or "How are you???" or even, "How can you possibly doubt my genuine excitement to see you when my eyes are so wide they might pop out of my head and take you out completely!?" I very much appreciate the strenuous zeal to make me feel welcome. Trying to sit down quietly is like trying to walk through a car dealership without being noticed. (We tried that once. Walked on. Drove off). But unlike salesmen circling for potential kills in a parched economy, I feel these parishioners' intensity at worst with the very best intentions, and at best quite genuine.
Back to the point--last Sunday I had to be the new person all by myself as Husband was out of state. I had committed, in word and blog, to inviting the Canadian and his wife to hang out, and to talking to the girl I met at the young adults group. It all seemed completely doable before when I so bravely told Husband I was going to do it. I felt so proud of myself for committing. What a conqueror! I had verbally uttered a plan! So there I was sitting on the end of a row (feeling completely exposed and trying to look entirely absorbed with trying to find the exact book of the bible in which to insert my bulletin) and I saw the girl and the Canadian.
I might as well have been menstruating in the open ocean and seen Jaws swim casually by. I looked down to avoid the possibility that they might see - thus eliminating my hope that they would see me and rapidly descend with invites to be best friends forever. What in the world was I supposed to say to Cute Girl? (Husband's description--I am not actually attracted to women). I had NOTHING to say to her and NOTHING was going to come up. I noticed she had on cute shoes, but that was grasping. Stupid. People hate having their shoes complimented anyway. People hate compliments. People hate being talked to. People espeicially hate being talked to by me. Obviously if I were to open my mouth without someone's express permission that I give them a compliment they would be utterly disgusted with my obtuse personality and never make the mistake of eye contact again.
The Canadian walked by. I stood. I spoke. I'm not exactly sure what I said. However, I'm starting to very much want to be friends with him because he was seemed really happy and excited about the prospect of interaction. Saturday was no good however, as he's going to the young adults group we originally met at. Right--we were planning on going to that too but hadn't remembered. Okay, well, let's talk for a little bit longer in a semi-complete sentences right here in the middle of the aisle while people try to squeeze by us trying to find a seat in this sardine-can church...
Then the grace of God came intervened. I backed up and stepped on Cute Girl's cute shoes. Break the ice. Break someone's foot. They both work. We didn't chat right then except to both apologize for bumping in to each other. But somehow possibly injuring her made me feel ready to talk.
After church I again talked to Canandian, and met Mrs. Canadian. I was very impressed by her kind, welcoming demeanor. She's about to have a baby and it's wonderful of her to be interested in opening her life to new friends when she clearly has a lot going on. (I hope we get to hang out before they have that kid, that way we'll be in before their lives are over). We were not able to nail down a specific date for hanging out, but we'll see each other on Saturday at young adults group and will talk then. I also talked to Cute Girl. Complimented her shoes. Now it's only a matter of time before she invites me on a muffin date.
I also facebooked someone I met here asking to hang out. It was a stretch, but I'm trying to be proactive. Things are getting desperate. Work drains my will to live drop by drop and it's hard not to have someone to have fun with. I mean, a non-husband type person. When I'm with friends I remember who I am, and I like that person much more than I am when I'm sitting here alone, hating my job, wondering what's going to happen in my life, and hoping I have enough talent and committment to move closer to my dreams. Even if I never realize them, I have to move closer than this. At the very least, I have to work somewhere where murder and suicide are not alternating daydreams.
Let me end on a positive note becuase I don't like wallowing. I am blessed with the most beautiful family I could ever conceive of. My sister and mom are tireless encouragers. They both seem to have a seventy times seven approach to how many times I can call them having a mental breakdown before they stop answering the phone. The way they live their lives is inspiring. I want to be like them when I grow up. My dad is my hero. The family members I married into are all great, and I have excellent and faithful long-distance friends. Every day I love my husband more, and I serve a God who has redeemed my life and wants to use it for his kingdom. Also, the manager at Starbucks just bought me a box of tea. I hope someday someone does something small for her that means as much as what she did for me.
All my love, Katie

Status update: Slow progress. But progress!

A few weeks ago my husband and I realized that in addition to our being introverts, we don't drink or go dancing. Social suicide, apparently. (Though, in our case, I think accepting an invitation to go dancing would also be, at the least, figuratively suicidal). Maybe if we did drink we could achieve a mental state frivolous enough to allow us to consider thinking about maybe going dancing, but we'd have to be too drunk to stand before the idea could have any remote chance of actualization, and by then, well, we'd be too drunk to stand.
We decided we needed to suck it up and join a small group, like every other happening Christian couple. Connect. Share. Grow. That what Christians do. We don't just hang out--we fellowship. Seriously though. The goal of a small group is to form real relationships and encourage one another in our lives. My husband and I buy into all this--pretty much. Except, we'd really love to find a way to do it all without leaving our couch. (He'd love to do it all without ever having to talk to anyone--let alone throw himself into a feeding frenzy of caring, relationally-minded individuals focused on just one thing: getting to know him. I might as well suggest that a vasectomy would be a really fun thing for us to do some Saturday afternoon).
Anyway, we did it. We went to a new church and were invited to their 20s-30s group. We took a deep breath. We showed up.
I think I might have been too old to go. I'm 23 and he's 25, so we're right in the middle of the age group, except for I now believe that married ages and single ages are like dog and people years. Fifteen months of marriage somehow added a grandmother's worth of un-hipness to my personality. When I walked into that group of young, vibrant, overwhelmingly vocal people, I felt like I had nothing in common with anyone there. In the midst of faux-hawks, fluorescent shoes and a general air of the young and over-enthused, all I could think of was that the most exciting thing that had happened to me in the last week was that we had bought a new toaster. (I'm not being facetious--not only did we get this thing for under $15, but it exalts bagels to near-divinity). I somehow doubted the 20-somethings would be on the edge of their seats to hear that one.
It was an awkward experience. However, from it I have identified two (2) targets. Objective one: female, very genuine, my age. After we left my husband said I should be friends with her because "she seems to have achieved a deeper level of maturity." My goal is to talk to her next Sunday at church. About what? I have no idea. I'm hoping she'll drop a handkerchief or something.
Objective two: At the young adults meeting there was a guy there that came late. At first I thought he had a speech impediment, but as it turns out, he's just Canadian. He's newly married and seems like a friendly guy that loves God. On Sunday (the day after the group) he sat in front of Husband and me. (I can't be constantly saying my husband, so let's just pretend Husband is his name, which is just as well because I often use it as such). Then, after church, the Canadian talked to us and said we should hang out sometime, since he too was doing the "young married thing." We agreed. He reiterated. You know the situation. "Hey, we should totally hang out sometime." "Yeah, we should totally do that." "Really, we should." "Yeah, we really should." He was completely sincere, but we failed to nail something down. It felt preliminary at the time, but now I'm thinking it might have looked like we were blowing him off. He might have been waiting for us to make a move so as not to tackle the newcomers like a school of piranhas. Aren't I trying to actively make friends here? I should have been the piranha! "What?? You want to hang out? What day works for you? Sunday? Monday? Tuesday? Any day? I work from 9-6 but I could get out of it... here's my cell number, my e-mail, let me just run out and buy a pager..." Husband and I realized our lapse and decided that next Sunday we are inviting him and his wife over for dinner. It's happening because I'm putting it in the blog. Of course, Husband won't be there next Sunday so I'll be on my own... but I won't fail this time. I'm like Inigo Montoya right now... my second chance I'll get the kill!
This morning I prayed for friends--Washington friends. Now it's up to me to be faithful, bordering on voracious, and make acquaintances into something more! Standby, datebook, you'll be running for cover...

Friends to Eat Muffins with

This morning I wanted a friend. Actually, most of the time I want friends. I mean Washington friends. Friends that I talk to face to face, not just through facebook. Wonderful, glorious, beautiful friends to share with and learn from. I want to be a friend as much as I want someone to be a friend to me. For what other reason should I have two aprons in my kitchen? It would also be wonderful if that printer/fax/copier were not the only other passenger in my car for the rest of my life. I want someone that will come over and make cookies with me. I want someone that will shop with me, not hover over my shoulder until I buy whatever it is in my hand at the time and run screaming from the store. (My husband is talented at so many other things). Is there no one out there to talk about nothing with? For the love, is there no one that I can take an interest in? The cashiers at Fred Meyer will only chat so much before they expect me to take my groceries and leave.
I feel I need to preface. I am a normally functioning female person. I shower regularly and only drool occasionally at night on my own designated pillow. I won't tell you about the digestive problems of my cousin's grandmother's three-legged cat the first time I meet you. The reason I am in want of friends is because I left all my cohorts, chums, accomplices and confidants behind in California. Washington must also be filled with people of excellent quality for me to hold dear, but I am shy about seeking them out. Out of school making friends has become this 18-step process where I chop myself up to be arranged and served on a platter. I garnish with my very best smile and see if anyone's hungry. The potential for rejection is daunting and legitimatizes what otherwise would be lame excuses for not talking to, calling, or even smiling at new people. These new people don't know that I once had friends and that they found me reasonably enjoyable company. They don't know I'm good for both laughing and crying. They've never seen me at my best or worst and there is no reason why they should want to. In short, they don't know me. I don't know them. But, maybe, maybe, if I could just get a foothold...
This morning it call came to a head when I found myself eating my dream muffin. I've been ogling this muffin for several weeks now, every time I go into Auntie Irene's coffee shop to get a cup of tea and get some work done or to just give my husband some time to himself. (As my social calendar is currently a wasteland populated only by occasional sympathetic tumbleweeds, my goldmine of a spouse endures the repercussions of a woman without outlet constantly and does enjoy some time alone with the XBOX now and then). But this muffin! It was beautiful from the moment I first saw it--the very syllables of its name were delicious: whole wheat banana blueberry. Someday, I dreamed, I would put that soft, dense, blueberry punctuated creation into my mouth and reach taste bud nirvana.
But the plan was the share this muffin with a friend. Then there would be an occasion grand enough to merit such a muffin. There would be a coffee date, planned or not, and there would be chatter over snacks. I would share about how I had been waiting for this muffin like Snow White waited for her prince, and they would share, and for that time the world would be lovely. I would have a friend - in Washington.
This morning the sun came out like it hasn't for a long time and Puget Sound glinted every one of its undulations with silver light and showed off like a primping peacock. I bought the muffin. I ate it alone.
Now we come to the point. I want that to be the last muffin I have no one to share with. Apparently, simply existing is not going to help me connect with the gems of friends that I know must be tucked away in this wet state somewhere. I have to go digging. Shy and scared I have to go. I want to have someone within driving distance to call my friend, and to walk through life with, for a little time, or for however long. Stand by, fellow wayfarers, I'm going to begin implementing strategy. I'm going to find someone to eat a muffin with.