misAdventures of Workmonkey 3.0

I think I have social anxiety. Actually, that isn't quite accurate. I have no problem talking to people I know. Loudly. For hours. And hours. And I like people. They don't make me anxious. But walking up to a new person and speaking? Even if that new person's entire job is to answer questions from strangers? I can't do it. It is a problem. And it is becoming more of a problem.

When I order pizza for dinner, make reservations at a restaurant, or need to ask the bartender to change the channel to the Chargers game (so I can watch them lose in the final seconds after leaving too much time on the clock for the fifteenth time), I make Jill do it (or, if Jill is not properly handy, the person closest to my right). I'm not sure why. I'm terrified of first impressions. And I don't like asking people something, because if they tell me no, I will look like an idiot.

Example: Neal recently asked me to call a very popular restaurant on a Saturday night to see if they had any tables available. I knew ahead of time that they would not have any tables available. It was a popular restaurant. It was a Saturday night. And it was New York. Of course no tables were available. And Neal wanted me to be the douchebag who calls and asks for a table, only to have the hostess snicker and tell me, "Of course we don't have a table, you fucking retard. It is a Saturday night. We've been booked for three weeks. Are you a fucking retard you fucking retard?" Then I'd have to stumble and mutter and say thanks and hang up, feeling exactly like the fucking retard she would accuse me of being. So of course, to avoid this very situation, I didn't call, and made an excuse to Neal so he would call (as he has never had a problem with looking like a fucking retard). So Neal called, and of course they had no tables. Because I am not a fucking retard, unlike Neal, I could figure that out without having to call.

The issue is that this anxiety manifests itself in behaviour (proper British spelling in honor of lee) that makes me look like even more of a fucking retard than if I had just done what it was I was supposed to do. And hence this blog.

This past Saturday night, Jill and i enjoyed a delicious Japanese dinner at Michelin-rated Sushi spot on Smith street, where we enjoyed such Americanized-pussified rolls like the "Spicy Girl", which included spicy Tuny, Spicy Salmon, avocado, topped with Yellowtail and Tempura flakes (yes, you Sushi arrogants, I am aware that there is no eel or jellyfish in there meaning that I am a sushi pussy). After wrapping up dinner with a few Sapporo beers and hot sakes, we were among the last tables there, a fact that did not go unnoticed by the eight Japanese workers, including our waitress, two other waitresses, one busboy, a host, and three sushi chefs, all of whom were fake-patiently waiting for us to get the fuck out, so they could clean up and begin their night.

Upon paying the bill, Jill reminded me we should tip the sushi chefs, as the sushi was good and they were all sitting there looking at us with that "don't be a cheap piece of shit" look and everyone who is experienced in the art of sushi knows you have to tip the sushi chefs. So, with a five dollar bill in hand, I walked up to the sushi bar and proceeded to look for the tip jar. With sixteen pairs of intense Japanese eyes upon me, I confusedly scanned the sushi bar, wondering if the black tin sitting in the middle (with japanese characters scrawled across it), was the tip jar. Seeing that it was closed, I continued to look. At this point, the three sushi chefs are looking at me with a mix of bewilderment and intrigue. What the fuck is this white cracker douchbag going, they were clearly thinking. A normal person, if I were one, would confidently hand the five dollars to the sushi chefs, thank them for their expert preparations, and move on. I, of course, was incapable of this standard procedure, as it would have involved looking like I didn't know what I was doing. And there was no tip jar, which would have removed me from having to interact with these japanese strangers. My plan was totally thrown off, and I was overwhelmed with the necessity to adapt. So instead of handing them the five, I smiled at the sushi chefs, walked a few steps past them as if I was headed to the bathroom, stopped when I realized I had just recently come from the bathroom, then pulled out my cell phone as if I had to text someone, someone important, and right that very second. So i stopped, fake texted someone (i think my fake text was something fake important such as "the deal just went through"), looked at the phone to fake-confirm that the fake-text went through the fake-cell phone tower, and put the cell phone back in my pocket. I turned, looked again at the increasingly confused sushi chefs, smiled again, and raced towards the door, where Jill was waiting with a pissed-off look. "What the fuck were you doing?" she asked. "Did you tip them? Everyone was looking at you."

"No."

"Why?"

"Just keep walking."

So why didn't I just tip them? I don't know. Literally. Some fucking insecure six-year-old inside of me took hold, the six-year-old that would hide behind his mom when meeting new people, peering out from behind her legs with a mix of curiosity and dread. No matter how many years pile up, or how many human interactions, or how many beers, that six-year-old is still there, and that six-year-old is asking "what is is sushi? where's the pbj?" and "who are all these japanese people?" and "where is leo the lion?" and running away, palming a sweaty five-dollar-bill, with the eyes of several confused Japanese restaurant workers following me out towards the door, wondering how a six-foot-two man with grey hair can be such a total pussy.

And this, my friends, is why I drink.