Bright red painted toes swayed gently in bedazzled flip-flops. Crossed legs and a relaxed slump in a lawn chair relayed her relaxed state, as she sipped a hard seltzer in pajamas. The sun blazed as we sat on a makeshift porch, sunglasses on, as the sound of neighbors, too close for my comfort, continued their day. I woke up late that morning, which is unusual for me in unfamiliar places. I’m sure it was the alcohol.
When the invitation came, I accepted with hesitation. The last few years had been very isolating. As an introvert; being around hundreds of people, even if outside at a campground, felt uneasy.
The night before, several neighbors stopped to chat. I stayed mostly quiet. At times, I felt like I was a researcher studying human social interaction, creating just enough distance to help calm my social anxiety.
Lawn chairs positioned, the fridge was filled with alcoholic beverages kindly offered with each neighborly visit, and my need to appear socially engaged increased my need to drink. There was a brief moment when I realized I consumed more alcohol than I had in the last several months, but the fog the alcohol created in my brain wouldn’t let me count.
I felt so out of touch, so disconnected and alien. I’d forgotten what it was like to be around people.
