Adventures in Being Awkward.

Latest proposal for epitaph: "Adventures in Being Awkward."

The 12-year-old me, who is my compass, would probably approve with a thumbs up and rousing "Rock what you got!"

The version of me that existed early teens to mid-20s would be appalled and hide her face in shame.

The present version of me smacks my forehead. I do awkward pretty well. 

Example:

For reasons yet unknown to me, I somehow potentially dislocated my jaw Sunday night. There was nothing that precipitated the out-of-line feeling, except maybe my over-the-top duet with Disney Pandora on that day's excursion. Weather conditions were less than ideal, but I wasn't holding the steering wheel in a grip of death; and so I highly doubt my jaw was clenched in any type of nervous teeth-grinding episode. I ran my errands, skipped dinner, washed my hair, and sat down with a good book. And then this dull, annoying, unsolicited pain right in front of my left ear. I figured I'd sleep it off, but the pain interrupted my sleep every 1.5-2 hours, so rest and relaxation was a lost cause. I made it to work only to have it worsen through the day. Reviewing causes, the list ranged from TMJ to symptom of a heart attack--especially in women. Consuming lunch was a mission in futility and by early afternoon, I was slurring my words like Ozzie. (My poor 4pm conference call.) Too sore to laugh and too afraid to cry, the workday was finally done and I decided a trip to UrgentCare was in order. I silently judged everyone in the waiting room, diagnosing them with flu, common cold, and hypochondriacism. When it was finally my term, two nurses flew through collecting my vitals and asking random questions before complimenting my boots, then sternly reminding me their x-ray machine was down and dental wasn't their department. Got it. Thanks. Also: Thanks to my slurred words, they misunderstood my weight and listed me as 30lbs lighter. Ha! Really, I was pretty flattered.

While waiting, I stared at the painting on the wall. My coat on the chair. The lavender gloves spilling from the box on a shelf. My booted feet, swinging lazily for want of a solid surface (short girl probs.) Waiting...waiting...waiting...listening for slowing footsteps, a knock on the door, a muffled question about the room I was in. My eyes repeated the staring process, starting again with the bold blues and greens on the painting. I absently shifted my shoulders, lamenting the fact that my once-perfect dancer's posture is long gone. Then finally, the doctor walked in, saving me from what was quickly disintegrating into a morbid reverie. He introduced himself and extended a hand, and instincts instructed me to smile before I remembered that at the moment, smiling hurt. A lot. 

Dr. Bright Blue Scrubs barraged me with questions, and despite his friendly demeanor, it felt like I was back at my homeopath's office and he was trying to catch me in a lie. 

September flashback:

Homeopath: Your sugars are dangerously low. You must suffer from headaches. (shuffles paperwork.)

Me: Not really. I get dizzy sometimes, but I don't really deal with headaches.

Homeopath: So, you're telling me you don't get headaches, but right here (rattles papers in my face) you state you experience migraines.

Me: I also believe I notated that they happened like 10 years ago. I had migraines, yes. A long time ago (angrily pointing at questionnaire) as stated in the paperwork.

Homeopath = Sociopath

Returning to the present...

Dr. Bright Blue Scrubs: So this pain...any trauma?
Me: No. (*shrug*) Nothing precipitated this. I mean...it's not like I was punched in the face or anything.

Dr. Bright Blue Scrubs: Oh. Is that what it feels like?

Me: Um...I've actually never been punched in the face. (Unless maybe I've joined a Fight Club in my sleep...?)

What ensues is the world's longest pause. Things are already bizarre and possibly getting awkward (a near certainty any time I am involved) by the time Dr. Bright Blue Scrubs crosses the room to check my jaw for alignment issues. He pushes on my chin, my jaw, then the spot where the pain is and I, like a dog, lean into his hand and say: "Oh. That's nice. That feels really good."

Congratulations, Christin. You're freaking crazy and now he knows it. I completely creeped myself out with that line, so I have no idea what he might have thought. Suddenly contrite for judging people in the lobby, I clamp my mouth shut (or at least as much as I can) and await his verdict. UrgentCare is not the perfect time to be one's self. UrgentCare staff do not necessarily understand let alone appreciate your sense of humor. They'd probably welcome projectile vomiting over jokes and witty banter. At the end of the day, I will have to follow up with a specialist. Everything felt in line, but there's that awkward issue of my teeth not quite fitting like they're supposed to--or at least they have since the day I got my braces off. It is, to quote the good doctor, "Weird." As in, "Let me see--Ooooh. That's weird." Is that your official medical opinion?

For the foreseeable future, I'll be living on applesauce and protein shakes, and continuing to make people everywhere envious of my confident awkwardness. I've already even secured Valentine's Day plans:

It's okay to be jealous.

In fact, it's completely natural.

Stay adventurous, my friends.