It's not difficult to guess, then, that I don't "put myself out there" very often. I am far too concerned with the worst outcome could be, convinced that the worst is exactly what will happen. And then I'll spontaneously combust or the world will stop turning. Or something.
The first time I tried putting myself out there is, funny enough, also the most embarrassing event in my life. It happened when I was a junior in college. Maybe I was feeling old and mature in all of my 21-year-old glory, or maybe I was tired of watching all of my friends get engaged around me. Who could know what motivated me this particular time, but it was six weeks in the making, all unraveled in the vulnerability of a single minute.
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I have changed the name of the ignorant to protect myself, in my account of what seemed to be a harmless crush. It started because Justin was a nice guy—pretty cute, and more importantly, he was smart. Captivated and intrigued, I was drawn to his intellect the way an insect is drawn to a fluorescent light.
Because I saw him every day in my classes, I worked to create different schemes, different reasons for us to talk to one another. As I sat in my desk each day and packed up my books, my stomach churned and my mind raced, trying to think of something to say before Justin left for the day. I asked him what teacher I should take for Advanced Research next semester, even though I had already planned out my schedule. I lagged behind after class so we could talk about the technology proposed in Jurassic Park, and how probable it was. I sat through and absolutely hated every bizarre minute of Being John Malkovich, just because Justin recommended it.
Though these predetermined situations provided fuel for my social cannon, I was upset; I had betrayed myself so I could have a three minute conversation with the guy. But even in my state of regret, I was smitten.
It made me happy, talking to him, and I realized that I wanted to take things to the next level. I thought Justin was worth it, so I made the plan. Having discussed Tolkien in the past, my friends and I decided to have a movie night where we would watch Lord of the Rings: Extended Edition, and I would invite him to watch with us. It seemed like a perfect way to take advantage of our common interests—an innocuous way to immerse him into my world.
It was a beautiful friday in early June when I built up enough courage to make a move. After class, I tagged along with him as we walked down the hall. Using the recently released Hobbit movie as an introduction, I rambled on as we turned the corner, completely unaware of the words coming out of my mouth; my sporadic heartbeat made me all too conscious of the act I was about to perform.
“So anyways,” I began, feeling as if I was plunging into a deep body of water. “My friends and I are watching Lord of the Rings tonight and I was wondering if you wanted to come?” There. It was out, finally. I could only wait.
An odd expression came over Justin’s face, one that slowly turned into a curious smile. Was it surprise? Surely by now he had to know that I liked him. Was it...embarrassment? It was only a movie with my friends. Completely impersonal, not even a date—we didn’t even have to sit on the same couch.
“I’m married,” he answered, grinning awkwardly.
I was paralyzed with shock. Looking at nothing in particular, I stared off in the distance as my mind flew through the past six weeks, searching for a clue, any indication that would help me realize my mistake. Was there ever talk of a wife? Not that I could remember. How could I have missed his wedding ring—I would have checked, right? I was 21, going to a Mormon private college. Being single felt like you had not received your invitation to some exclusive club. We were of a rare breed. And more importantly, you always knew to look for a ring. It all came to a halt as I stood there in the midst of students heading to their next class. There was nothing, nothing I could think of.
Realizing that I needed to respond, I tried to brush it off.
“Oh, you are?” I asked truthfully, quickly glancing at his left hand. I was right—there was no ring. “It’s just, you seemed cool...” I trailed off, unsure of what to say, where to go from there.
“Yeah, I keep that part of my life private. I’m flattered though,” he started, obviously trying to appease my embarrassment.
“Yeah,” I remarked. Still staring off with eyes wide with panic, my hand brushed the back of my neck. I knew I had to get out fast. “Well, I gotta go,” I said in falsely cheery demeanor, and I immediately turned to head down the stairs.
“Oh...kay...” I heard him say as I walked away, understandably confused.
I walked outside in a daze, my eyes wincing as the sun shone bright. Grabbing the straps of my backpack, I held on tight as I walked, uncertain of what to do next. I could hardly think, but I pulled out my phone and called my best friend, Brianne. In a somewhat secluded cement corner on campus, I tried to bury myself into the wall—his rejection, a metaphorical dunce cap hanging over my head.
I couldn't contain the sobs as I explained the situation to her. People walked by, some looking on with intrigue, and others uncomfortably trying to ignore this weeping girl. Brianne offered kind and supportive words, but they weren’t enough. As I stood there, absolutely mortified, it seemed like there was no possible way to recover from what I had done. I wanted nothing more than for gravity to stop working, so I would fly off the face of the planet.
Though, in my head, I knew I hadn’t done anything wrong, I still felt like a homewrecker. Vacillating between anger and guilt, I cried, overcome with a shame that should not have been mine to take on.
“It’s his fault!” My friends cried. “He should have known what was going on. I mean, what kind of married guy has a friendship like that with a single girl?”
I didn’t care. Or I cared too much. But I figured that we were either both at fault, or neither were, and as upset as I was, I didn’t want to place blame.
This event haunted me all weekend. Every minute was flooded with all of those little moments that we had shared—the little moments that had brought me such joy only days earlier. Those two days were spent trying to figure out what to do. Monday would come, and I would have to see Justin again. And the day after that. And every miserable day after that for the next seven weeks until the semester ended.
On monday, I intentionally arrived to class a few minutes late, quietly slipping into my assigned seat next to his. (Of course, this was the one class in my entire college career that had assigned seating.) Focusing my attention on the board in front of us, I took notes with a diligence that my teacher had never seen in me before.
After an excruciating hour, I packed up my things, finally facing him. Apologies tumbled out, one after another, as we walked down that same hall. Justin was kind and understanding about the whole matter, but all of the kindness in the world couldn’t carry the embarrassment resting on my shoulders. I never wanted to see Justin again, but here I was, in the same spot as the friday before, asking him, "Can we just be friends?"
I had no intention of being friends.
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