Warning: Introvert Emerging

It’s not you. It’s me.

You’ve got to believe me.

You’ve maybe noticed how I trip over my words. Or I say things that seem to meander on a disjointed path, bereft of any point or story.

When we were told not to leave our house in order to stop the coronavirus from spreading, I wanted to leave my house in the worst possible way.

Now that restrictions are easing up and we’re slowly leaving our house again, going back to work, standing a little closer to others—close enough to have an actual conversation—well, I’m not sure I’m ready.

In the past few weeks, I’ve returned to some of the things I did in my “old life.” I had a meal at a restaurant. I attended two school concerts that were held outdoors. When I’m at work now, I no longer look down and avoid eye contact with my colleagues. It’s finally okay to stop and chat for a bit.

Looking at a person eye-to-eye feels really great, and really weird, too. In some cases, I’m surprised at how nice it is to see the bottom half of a friend’s face that until recently has been obscured by a mask. Until 2020, I always took for granted that I would be able to see the bottom half of a person’s face just as much as I saw the top half.

A lot of us don’t have a lot of material for conversation. We haven’t been doing much the past few months, unless you count watching Netflix or learning to bake bread. 

So now, if I bump into you in social situations, you’re going to have to excuse me.

It’s not you—really.

There will be long, awkward pauses in our conversation as I try to come up with a question that isn’t inquiring about your vaccine. I certainly don’t want to talk about the weather, either, although I’m guilty of using that as a crutch sometimes.

I’m grasping at simple words and phrases that used to flow freely off my tongue. Names, too.

I hope that if I meet you on the street, I can do my part to engage in a nice conversation. I may take a little while to get started. My motor is a little rusty. I may stop and stutter and splutter as I reaccustom myself to small talk.

Admittedly, my listening skills have a short shelf life, too. Undoubtedly, your voice may be drowned out by my inner voice, inevitably running through the catalog of Seinfeld episodes that have been my TV comfort food the past 12 months. (I’ve seen them all—multiple times—during the pandemic.) My eyes will start to glaze over. My brain will sound the alarm that I’ve met my quota of human interaction for the day.

And then I will go home and flop down on the couch, exhausted, painfully reliving each moment of our interaction. I will worry. Were you bored? Was I making any sense? Did I tell you a story I’ve repeated before? Why were you staring at my forehead? Was my voice too loud? Or too soft? Should I have worn these pants out in public? Are you wondering if I’ve been packing on the pandemic pounds? Did I say a proper goodbye, or did I just walk away distractedly?

I hope I made sense. I hope you know how happy I was to see you. It’s just been a very long time since I’ve had normal human interaction outside of my own family. I’m out of practice. It’s going to take some time for the muscle memory to take over. I’m going to have to build up my stamina so my introverted self can spend more time with you without all my senses shutting down.

I never realized what a genuine introvert I was until the pandemic gave me permission to be one. But the old life sings us its siren song and we go to it willingly, though haltingly. I may forget your name or drift off in the middle of a sentence. But I assure you, it’s not because of anything you did. It’s just me, trying to shake off the thick layer of dust from last year and find my bearings once again.

It’s definitely not you. It’s me.