The deceiving extrovert

Why do I feel more comfortable around people who have no idea who I am?

Wrapped in a towel, sipping a white wine, deciding which of my two 2016 inspired makeup looks to opt for, I find myself admitting:

“I’m nervous for this, I dunno why”.

Me and two friends are getting ready to head to a party where we know absolutely everyone. And it’s downstairs. In our own front room.

“What????? You know everyone!! And you’re the best at social interactions. It’s effortless for you, no?”

My rebuttal comes as an admission of how painfully blank my mind goes when it’s my turn to steer conversation to a nice destination. My friends laugh, and think I’m joking. “If anyone can hold a room, it’s you.”

“Put me in a room of strangers and I’ll thrive” I joke, but say with complete belief.

Why is it easier to be charming, funny, and effortless with strangers, but the opposite with people you know?

Put me in a party (with the support of strong cocktail, I must admit) and I am the blueprint of confidence, social lubrication on tap and the ringleader of the small talk matineé. I thrive knowing there’s a blank slate. Put me in a hostel room and you’ll find me out for dinner with the bunkmates and plans in under an hour. Job interviews? An hour to present my best, most attractive employability after I’ve rehearsed STAR answers? Oh go on then.

Jesus, sometimes it extends to the morbidly uncomfortable. I don’t mind asking a massage lady where she completed her qualifications mid rub(?!) - the normal reaction to a stranger touching your naked back.

It feels light, effortless and I don’t have an image to preserve. I am whoever I want to be at that time, and I don’t have to wrestle with the archives of myself. It’s a small act of reinvention every time, and a brief escape from the depths of who I actually am.

But when it’s time to bring up something that hurt my feelings 3 weeks ago to someone who’s seen the worst parts of myself - I’m tongue tied. A far cry from the girl at the party telling well timed, funny stories. I’m clunky, nervous, sweating palms and a complete fall from grace. The sudden spotlight in my eyes makes me squint - of being not only perceived, not only known but someone else being invested in loving very uncomfortable jigsaw pieces of myself.

Meeting a long term friend for coffee sends more chills down my spine than a very chatty uber driver. The sum of our history spanning 3 friendship groups, 2 boyfriends, 4 cities and thousands of interactions that lead us right to this moment suddenly bears weight on my chest. Not because I don’t adore her - because I’ll fumble my words, contradict myself and she’ll remind me of a past version of myself I’ve forgotten about.

I’ve taken time recently to muse on why I thrive around those that don’t know me, and struggle with those that do - is it the thousands of versions they’ve witnessed that even I’ve forgotten? Is it a self erected shield to protect me from feeling vulnerable, not digestible or not accepted? Or is it the freedom of having nothing to lose around strangers? How I can abandon the bits I don’t really want to bring to the party and they are none the wiser?

Perhaps. But I think, more honestly, it’s to do with what I don’t say - what would cause the crowds at a party to disperse.

Nervousness that what people witness of me - my faults, my shortcomings - over a long time of me doesn’t add up. That I deem myself more acceptable in well meaning, quickly passing chunks of interactions. It’s opting for fast, easy high of ego-stroking in a slick exchange, a reinforcement of social aptness but a complete cheap thrill - compared with the slow burn, clumsy but real, nervous system sustaining vulnerable reality of a slow reveal of self - long-term knowing, learning and loving. And the latter takes a whole lot more vulnerability.

Out in the world, you get to give a performance. You get to present the self you’d like others to witness. But real knowing and loving doesn’t care about the final edit. The people in your life you’ve bared your soul to, and they’ve been brave enough to do the same, don’t really give a shit about how slick your interactions are. They demand you to remove the Instagram filters of your self. They see the crumpled drafts, messy scripts that don’t really make sense, and your forever developing iterations, and still find you just as fascinating as when you met at that party.