Conversation Starters and Number 2 Pencils.

There are some people who are really good at getting conversations flowing.  They will say one word like "pancake" and everyone dives into the conversation, "Oh pancakes! Yes, I love pancakes, one time at Aunt Miriam's we had a stack that was as tall as I was . . ." as everyone looks on expectantly.

When I am in a group setting, in particular, a group setting with people I am unfamiliar with, conversations make me nervous.  The issue is my brain.

Here is how it would work in a conversation about pancakes:

My Brain Thinks This:

pancakes > syrup > don't like butter > Paula Deen > too many pancakes make my stomach feel sick> stomach-aches > junior high kind of sucked >  6th grade Science class, bad stomach-ache >

I say This:

"I broke a pencil once."

This effectively ceases all conversation as everyone looks up at me questioningly, wondering if I had indeed forgotten to take my meds this morning.

It is very difficult to back track, it is even more difficult to explain about situations when people don't know you and don't know the people you are talking about.

That has never stopped me from trying.

The time I broke the pencil was early in the school day.   I used to get so nervous before school that my stomach would be in knots.  I didn't like junior high, I hated talking to people even more.  School was filled with both of these things, therefore, I was in a perpetual state of self-induced social panic.

So I'd sit there, not eating breakfast before school, wringing my hands.

"Oh god, what could I say today that would make people like me, I wish my parents could afford better clothes, my hair is nasty, why is my hair so nasty? I should have gotten it cut, if I got it cut I bet people would like me more..."

Once at school, tensions died down a little bit. The knots in my stomach would lessen.  But not that day.

That day in 6th grade, I thought I was dying.   I thought "well this is it, my stomach is literally rotting from the inside out".  . . . I should just go home, go to the nurse, do something.  Which of course I only did if I wanted to actually leave. . .I didn't want to go because I really liked Science class.  I always had a deep fondness for the classes I did well in.

We had to use pencils in science class.  If you were doing a lab report, or an experiment and had to make changes, well that wasn't very well happening with a pen now was it?

So I sat there with a death grip on my pencil.  I would wait for the pain in my stomach to subside, knowing I'd have a good 10 minutes before it was back again.  I spent most of my days at school like this.  It wasn't glamorous, nor was it a good way to make friends. I am pretty sure I had a pained expression on my face at all times.

I would have made more friends had I foamed at the mouth on occasion, at least that was explainable " I was born like this...I just foam sometimes, it's totally harmless..."  Then I'd get invited to parties and they'd say "ANDREA, DO YOUR FOAMY TRICK" and to the delight of all, I would.

My death-grip on the pencil tightened, and all of sudden:

SNAP, the wood splintered,
WHOOSH, the top half of the pencil went soaring through the air, nearly taking off someones ear-
PING/ CLANG- as it hit the floor, and rolled once-- twice, and finally came to as stop somewhere in the center of the classroom.

Everyone looked at me.

"Oh uhhh, my pencil just broke."  I said as my face turned a violent shade of red.

Classmate (who shan't be named)

"WELL YEAH, that's cause you were squeezing it, you had white knuckles"

Everyone giggled.

The teacher made some comment, I believe it was about me being strong...

No girl at that age wants to be called strong.  I already felt I had man arms, I suffered from a mixture of an athletic body, hidden behind bowls of cereal and boxes of kudo bars.  My metabolism was trying, it just wasn't winning.

I don't know why, but I'm pretty sure my life depended on people thinking that this pencil broke on it's own accord:

"PAH, CHEAP PENCIL." That's what I should have said, then people would have reserved their judgement.

What if they thought I was some crazy super strong female that went around breaking everyone's god damned number two pencils?  Then what?  Oh great.  They probably think I have man hands.  I have boy hands, and I grip pencils so tightly that they disintegrate in my hands, turn to ash and dust, while people stare at me with fear in their eyes.

I had a tendency towards the dramatic.

For the rest of the day, and obviously for a greater part of the last ten- twelve- years or so since 6th grade, I have thought about what the people in that class thought about the day I broke that pencil.

I also really like pancakes.