I'm Shy!

Those of you who only know me on line may not think it, but I'm shy!

How shy?  When they called roll in school, I would answer absent just so I didn't have to talk to anybody. In high school, I was voted Most Likely to Become a Mime. And even today I'm terribly uncomfortable talking to others unless Cyrano de Bergerac is writing my dialogue.

How shy? Throughout my life, people have always been telling me to come out of my shell. Come out of my shell?  I'm looking for an even smaller shell to crawl into!

The fact is, being shy sucks.  It's beyond being an introvert.  An introvert is one who enjoys the quiet times more than the social ones, someone who prefers to be far from the madding crowd.  A shy person is mad for the madding crowd, someone longing for the social times--- for fun, frivolity, and fellowship --- just as long as he doesn't have to go out the front door to get them.

Once I joined a professional organization for shy people, the Business Association of Shy and Humble Folks Ultimately Lonely (BASHFUL, and don't think it wasn't a lot of work to come up with that!)  BASHFUL had monthly morning meetings with a breakfast spread and a speaker.  Once in a while the speaker showed up, which the three of we regular attendees really appreciated. Networking at BASHFUL meetings routinely had to be conducted with everyone blindfolded. 

At one meeting I met a gorgeous thirty-something woman nervously standing by the coffee table. She told me she'd been painfully shy her entire life and had never even had a boyfriend.  She said she was simply desperate to meet someone nice and for some reason had always been attracted to older Jewish men and blushing profusely, frankly confided in me that she was very, very horny.

Damn! If only I'd had the guts to ask her out!

How did I get this way? There's no question there's got to be a shyness gene.  I don't know if it's been isolated yet but it doesn't matter because it's always been isolated.  It's either sitting quietly in the middle of its very own chromosome or huddled nervously on the edge of another, sadly eyeing all the fun the other genes are having and silently weeping.

Those of us with the shyness gene then compound the problem by continually acting shy. I know a shy person who every night returned home to his mother's womb which was no mean feat in that he was the size of Chewbacca and did it until he was 29.  The point is that shyness reinforces itself and doesn't get better unless we shy people take the initiative and make it get better.

Here's one technique that's worked for me:  Let's say you're too shy to go into a store and ask the clerk for change for a dollar without buying something first. 

1) On the first day enter the store and buy something in the nature of a major appliance. Like a washing machine, refrigerator, threshing equipment, the space shuttle. You decide which.

2) On the second day return to the same store and buy some slacks, cruise wear,  a couple of Cuban cigars,  a box of  Goobers.  Another chocolated candy will do, not gummy worms. 

3) On the third day return to the same store and ask for change for a dollar.   

You did it, tiger!

Many shy people when confronted with certain social situations experience an unpleasant scary sensation in parts of the body, most typically the stomach, chest, or both. For me, the sensation is particularly wicked because it also involves a number of the embarrassing body parts, like an ass cheek.  Or two.  Or three, were there to be three.

But why do we let this feeling control us? Why do we let a sensation stop us from having fun, enjoying new experiences, meeting hot chicks at business meetings? We don't let indigestion do this, unless we've left our proton pump inhibitors in our other suit. Years from now we're not going to remember that uncomfortable feeling in our gut, chest, or butt cheeks but the opportunity lost, the experience missed, the life not lived.

It sort of doesn't make any sense, does it? 

So if you're shy, let's you and me try to stop letting it happen. Maybe with a true step-by-step approach (i.e., not the one above) and a little bit of time and effort, we could do it. Sure, it's not quite that simple, but it might not be all that complicated either.

You got any ideas?  Come on, speak up!  Don't be shy! 

Who knows? Before long we could be slapping a "for sale" sign on that shell! 

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Yep, got a bit serious in the last part of this post.  Know why?   Because ....

I'm Shy!

Only Yesterday

"Is that really me? Is that really how I look?"

Eustace paused to regard himself in the reflective glass storefront en route to his weekly doctor appointment. It seemed only yesterday he was young and vibrant, but now he gazed upon a neck sagging to his shirt collar, wrinkles from forehead to chin, and a body shaped like a pear.  

Only yesterday.

Eustace sat in his doctor's office. "Eustace," said Dr. Jim, "I'm afraid there's a problem. "

"Oh, doctor, don't tell me!" protested Eustace. "It seems only yesterday I was young and vibrant."

"It was only yesterday, you idiot, and that's the problem!"

"What?"  

"Your bizarre obsession with Halloween! You don't have to wear that costume for another month and a half!"

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Would that the years were a costume we could put on and take off  just like Eustace!  That's the morale of my contribution this week to the Fantastic Flying Friday Fictioneers as based upon the picture prompt above.

Nature will drape that costume upon you sooner than you know, so whatever it is you want to do, go do it, do it now, and don't let anything hold you back, least of all that most worthless and unprofitable commodity known as fear. And don't hold back from digging into the offerings and  life lessons of the many other wise Fictioneers as well, all available by clicking here.

Well, I've got me one consolation: at least I can take off this false rubber nose .......  OOOOOUUUUUUCCCCCCHHHHHHH!!!

Thank You, Michele Young-Stone!

Michele Young-Stone

Michele Young-Stone is a terrific new writer on the American literary scene and her debut novel The Handbook for Lightning Strike Survivors has won praise from readers and critics alike.

It is so good that I actually read it!,  a major testament in that I am so ill-read I think "Huckleberry Finn" is a type of pie served only at Red Lobster.

That's why I was surprised when Michele asked me several weeks ago if I would like to author a guest post for her blog, Michele Young-Stone, Novelist.  Normally in the course of life I'm not asked to do much more than shut up and stand in the corner, so Michele's request caught me quite off guard. 

But I was indeed humbled and honored by it. Although now that I think about it, does it really make sense to be both humbled and honored? 

Aren't they opposites?    WTF?

"Write what you know" is a credo to which many writers subscribe and I subscribe to it as well, primarily because I got a t-shirt and 50% off my subscription. Thus I decided to write about what I know best which is writing a humor blog, or to be more precise, writing an unsuccessful humor blog. 

My post  for Michele is entitled "How to be a Successful Unsuccessful Humor Writer," and I sincerely hope it will inspire,  guide, and support eager new humor writers in  falling on their faces just as  I have these last few years.  

And thank you again for this opportunity, Michele.  I am humbled.  And honored.

But not both at the same time.

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Note: A new and updated version of the post I prepared for Michele containing further research into the subject of failing miserably at writing a humor blog appears here.

Don't miss it!  If you've got nothing better to do in 2017.

Fallophilia

Look pleasing to you?  

You're suffering from Fallophilia!

As summer 2013 winds to a close, once again there has been a rash of reports of people making deranged statements like "Gee, I'm glad this summer is over," "I've been looking forward to September, it's so hot lately," and "Fall is my favorite time of year; what's yours?" 

Every year similar reports have been known to surface,  but public health authorities agree that such mindbendingly ludicrous and idiotic statements are increasing. "It's all indicative of a bizarre illness that we call Fallophila," says medical researcher Dr.  Henry Mergen, "and we are at a loss to cure it or even explain it!"
  
While normal in appearance,  those afflicted with Fallophilia may wax poetic about the beauty and charm of small New England villages, extol supposed virtues and wonder in fallen leaves and crisp clear evenings, or sigh contentedly while reading poetry by Robert Frost. All of which begs the question: 

Don't these crazy ass people know what's coming next?!!

"We believe that many Fallophiliacs have a brain defect which causes them not to comprehend that they're going to be freezing their nuts off in a couple of months," Dr. Mergen explains. "They think the seasons recycle in the manner of  spring, summer, fall, spring, summer, fall and so on. Those who do actually realize there is  such a thing as winter are pretty much psychopaths and lunatics, aside from the ones who live in Florida."

What should you do if you encounter a Fallophiliac? 

"Simply humor them," advises Dr. Mergen. "Let 'em traipse into the woods in their down jackets with no sleeves, grab armfuls of dead leaves and fling them playfully at each other, bob for pumpkins, or do whatever other insane nonsense Fallophiliacs are wont to do. The poor devils are sick."

"Just don't --- I repeat don't --- under any circumstances consider marrying one!"

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