I know embarrassment well, we’re old friends. We date back to the earliest exclusions from clubs, courts and cliques; to being teased for awkward childhood haircuts and gangly limbs in ill-fitting clothes. We go way back to the days of wanting so desperately to fit in, to be like everyone else; ashamed of the quirks and oddities that kept me on the outside. But this embarrassment — it’s not the same. This is not shame.
This embarrassment comes from being put on the spot, from knowing what I want to express, but not having had the time to produce a clear and concise answer. This is the embarrassment of listening to my own explanation become increasingly mucked up with each aside, each rephrasing, each attempt at clarifying the words that fall haphazardly from my lips in all the wrong order. This is what you get with me: an unrelenting hopefulness, unabashed silliness, and an excessive eagerness for most everything. But you’ll always get the truth, as jumbled and confusing as it may be, it’s honestly, embarrassingly me. So here is your truth most clearly:
Of course I wish I could spend more time with you. What’s the sense in being with someone you’re not excited about? I’m attached and, I suppose, a little big greedy so of course I want to see you, I want to talk to you, I simply want to be around you doing anything, doing nothing. I’m doing more than feeling, dear. I’m crashing into falling.