My Self Loathing, Part 3*

Act I
When I was six, my dad brought a kitten home for me. I named the orange and white striped boy kitten Tiger, after the kitten in My First Kitten, which was my favorite book at the time. I think it's out of print now. We left Tiger at home and went out in the cold October rain to buy supplies. After stopping at Giant to buy a litter box, etc, we went out to dinner at Anitas. My love for Mexican food started at a very early age. If I remember what happened next correctly, I'm sure I mortified my parents. I walked around to several tables and explained to the diners trying to enjoy a cheap meal on a Friday night that my dad had just brought me home a kitten. I told them I was naming the kitten Tiger and we'd just been to Giant to purchase kitten supplies.
Act II
It's about 21 years later, Tiger is dead, and I no longer speak to strangers in restaurants. As I learned at breakfast the other day, I am incapable of it. Husband and I went out to enjoy one of our last meals in town. As we waited to get seated, we noticed a woman, about our age, holding a baby much smaller than ours. She was getting her baby together and noticed us with our baby. She asked how old Baby was, and I squeaked out, "Twelve weeks," then said nothing else. Nothing. The five of us stood in awkward silence. Well, three of us felt awkward. The babies were fascinated by the bright red hair, or maybe the massive breasts, of another diner. After a millennium of awkward silence, the other mama said, "My baby's ten weeks old." I smiled and nodded, but my smile seemed fake, even though I couldn't actually see it. She and her ten week old baby walked out the door, and Husband, Baby, and I got settled at our table.
Part of the way through my scrambled eggs, grits, toast, and Pepsi, I blurted out, "That's why I can't stand myself. I couldn't think of anything to say."
"Yeah," he replied. "That was weird. You couldn't even ask her how old her baby was."
"If I were Leighann," I continued angrily, "I'd have an appointment to go have coffee with her next week."
"Well, you're not Leighann," he said in between bites of corned beef hash.
"I can't do this. I have to have friends when we move. I cannot go continue to go through this," I moaned.
"Do we need to practice? Like you talking to people?" he asked.
"Are you serious?" I replied.
"Um......yeah, kind of," he said. "Hey, look, Baby's really interested in your Pepsi can."
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I am freakishly shy. In ninth grade, one of my teachers "nominated" me for a guidance department run support group for shy people. Even then I found that a little illogical. I'm guessing that most shy people are too shy to join a support group about how shy they are. I'm not sure what changed from the six year old who found it perfectly acceptable to terrorize other diners or even the toddler who told a stranger on the church steps that I didn't go to church because Mommy didn't believe in God. I honestly don't know how I got to where I am now.
I know, despite a few isolated moments of boldness, I've always been shy. With shyness comes a social ineptitude. With social ineptitude comes loneliness. Lots and lots of loneliness.
I've spent the last three years living a minimum of two hours away from my friends. In the three years I've lived here, I've had maybe three friends. I've bitched and moaned about how lonely I am, and Husband's fluctuated between very irritated and wonderfully patient. Resentment was a major theme our first year of marriage, as I spent a lot of time blaming him for my loneliness, even though it's not really his fault. While people have admitted to me that meeting people in this town is very difficult, I can't say I made a whole lot of effort.
I can't continue to do this. Once we get settled, I have to find friends. I'm just not sure how. I am a very social person. I love going out, seeing plays, eating at restaurants, browsing shops and street fairs, drinking coffee or beer, or just wandering around. I thrive on stuff like this. Much of the time since I left New York has been draining, as I've had very little outlets for my socialness.
Despite being a very social person, social situations, especially ones where I have to meet new people or make small talk create a lot of anxiety with me. Simply emailing someone I don't know very well to see if they want to have dinner or grab a coffee can take me upwards of an hour, and then I fret over whether or not Potential New Friend will want to hang out with me, or if they do, I then worry about whether or not I will have anything to say to Potential New Friend. Anytime Husband and I have gone out with his coworkers, I've had a boulder sit in my belly for the duration of the outing. I can't think of anything to say, and I pressure and pressure myself to come up with something witty, and when I can't, I start freaking out about what they must think of me: boring, stupid, ugly, fat, weird. And here's a secret. I do the same thing, only worse, with his family members. I've been coming around for almost four years now, and I've officially been part of the family for two. But at large family gatherings, and even sometimes at smaller ones, I clam up. It's easier in a way because there's so much conversation going on, I can just sit and listen for the most part. While I'm listening to the conversations flow around me, though, my mind says terrible things to me: They wish he hadn't married you. They wish he'd married Former Girlfriend. They liked Former Girlfriend much more than they like you. She'd be able to talk. They can't believe he picked someone like you to marry. Why did you wear that outfit? You look fat in it. Your curls are looking especially frizzy today. You could really use a manicure. You seem really dumb just sitting here. Why did you answer that question like that? Nobody's interested in what you've got to say. And so on. For hours and hours and hours.
So what to do when I move? I could take a class, find some sort of volunteer opportunity that would allow me to take Baby, take knitting or sewing lessons, join a church, invite coworkers to hang out, etc. But knowing me, I'd just sit there, like a life-sized Gracie statue, then go home and berate myself for my behavior.
I can't do that for the rest of my life, nor can I simply rely on Husband for my social interaction. I need to be around people and talk about Interesting Things and Important Ideas, and I need to be able to do it without it becoming a full-scale panic attack. Obviously, it's not healthy, and I want Baby to grow up with a Mama who can volunteer on his field trips and not be the weird Mama who stays by herself and doesn't talk to anyone. I keep trying to convince Husband that this problem will be solved by sending me to Europe for at least a month, but sadly, he's not buying it.

*I'm not sure what happened to "My Self Loathing, Part 1." I guess it went to blog heaven. No biggie. Just wanted to clarify that I can actually count.