Even though I write this column, I have managed to flatter myself into thinking that I’m not really all that awkward. I have even gone so far as to let myself believe that I instigate all the awkward situations I’ve written about this semester, just for the sake of having something to write about.
The truth is that I’m as awkward as a freaking turtle, so it’s probably easier for The Sun to have someone who is already uncouth write this column than to find someone to fake their way through purposefully created, uncomfortable situations. The reason that I’m announcing my socially inept nature for everyone to read is that, even though my friends and I contemplate all the bizarre things I could do to see how people would react (walking around with a bit of toilet paper coming out of my pants and speaking in a British accent in one of my classes for a day and then abruptly acquiring an American accent in time for my next class were some of my favorite suggestions), I don’t need to contemplate these things. It’s really more a tool of procrastination than it is anything else because, for those of you who know me (and now, those of you who don’t), you know that in the same manner that drama rides on Shaant Hacikyan’s back (a little Cute Is What We Aim For humor for you…), artlessness rides on mine. And without further introduction, I present to you ... my last column of the semester.
Over Thanksgiving break, just as everyone else in the entire world with any desire for material goods (read: just as all other overly materialistic Americans), I went Black Friday shopping. It was not the intense kind, where I map out the mall shelf-by-shelf or aisle-by-aisle beforehand and then wait outside the mall for stores to open at 2 a.m. (I’m not quite that crazy… but look me up in five years — one shitty apartment and a lot of college loans to repay later — and I might be). It was the kind of lazy Black Friday shopping where I missed half of the sales but I decided to venture to the mall anyway because I desperately needed a new pair of jeans … and some Sperry’s.
I went shopping with some family friends. The term “family friends” doesn’t really do them justice — these people have known me so long that they know every embarrassing detail of my childhood, from playing Power Rangers in my ballet leotard to the time I accidentally stepped on their youngest daughter … in my defense, she didn’t even wake up so I must not have stepped that hard! But I digress. I went to the bathroom just as my friend was about to hit up the dressing rooms. She texted me while I was waiting in line for the bathroom, saying that she was in dressing room 11, and I told her that I’d meet her there afterward. After leaving the restroom — correction, they call it a “lounge” at Nordstrom … quelle vie bourgeoisie — I went to the dressing rooms and I knocked on the door of room 11 with one of my patented conversation starting (and in this case, conversation ending) lines “hey cutie, open up.”
I’ve always thought that my use of terms of endearment like cutie, sweets, sugar plum, sad panda, little kumquat and babe was just my way of expressing affection. I mean, what else could it be construed as? But when the occupant of dressing room 11 opened the door — and was NOT my friend — she did not seem amused in the slightest. Apparently, there were two sections with dressing rooms, and I picked the wrong one. And this woman was just not having it. She stared me down, and said, “What cutie?!” like it was a crime. Let’s be real; the times that she has been called cutie are probably few and far between so I think she could’ve been a bit nicer about the whole situation, but I didn’t have the balls to say that. I didn’t even have the balls to explain why I had knocked on her dressing room door and called her a cutie! She looked so angry that I could barely mumble out an “I’m sorry” before running out.
While I would love to give you all some excellent advice here, I don’t really have any because I firmly believe in the substitution of terms, such as cupcake, pumpkin and booface in the place of first names. If anything, my parting words of wisdom would be to make sure you knock on the right dressing room door … but really, how often are there two room 11s? Hopefully not often. So have a good break and happy finals, my little kumquats!