Expectations are Fucking Rough.

Expectations are funny things.

Even when people just outright say, “Hey, I want you to do that” or “please meet this need” “or can you provide this nugget of information”…all of this is so open to interpretation… and it’s…well…awkward.

Especially for me, of course, cause why would I assume that anything would be easy…not for me…I’m difficult. Cause admidst all the plethora of thoughts rattling through my brain just as part of my innner dialogue, I’m supposed to also know what the fuck others are actually communicating to me.  So while I’m actively annoying myself inwardly humming “baby shark” I’m supposed to be simultaneously and deftly peeling back and delving into the layers of communication like a master chef preparing and maximizing the flavors of a delicate pearl onion. I DON’T think so…in fact I know I’m getting it SO wrong.  The jury is still out on whether or not I’m really at fault but all things considered there’s still an outstanding amount of disconnect.

Maybe Freud had it right, that most of our layers are underneath consciousness.  The vivid image of a massive glacier only barely peeking through the surface of a vast ocean of the subconscious.  I ask myself, “why do I seem so aware of my subconscious…it’s supposed to be sub…duh” “Is it only me that is so aware of my inner workings?” and the only conclusion I can reach with any surety is damn skippy and that’s why you’re so fucking awkward.  I’m also likely alone in overthinking about overthinking…funny.

Simple things are the hardest…simple requests.  “Would you like to go out sometime?” Um maybe, yes, I’m not sure, but I have a lot to do, sleep is cool, will you bore me, etc.  “Can you grab me a drink?” Ok, let me just prepare an eight course homemade meal comprised of all your favorites and an abundance of drink options.  Speaking of drinks…I often have several beverages in progress, creating a physical match to the clusterfuck of my mind. When the expectation is that, as an adult, I should be able to walk with little to no injury and then I fail this on a semi daily basis.  If someone opens the door, am I supposed to go in…in fact I often aggressively open the door for others because I’m frightfully unsure of this simplest of etiquettes. So if the simple things elude me, you can imagine the trouble with the more complex and abstract expectations.

Like sorry Mom, I didn’t realize you just needed some of my time and attention as it was couched in a bunch of questions about why your phone isn’t working and I was rude to you because I can’t see what’s on your phone as we are in different locations and I’m not a tech whiz.  Oops. Or when he is just looking for a booty call and I go and give my whole beating romantic heart on a gilt platter with garnish. When I take the joke way too far or my language is just way too raunchy and it’s crickets. Oops, that was offensive…on multiple levels. You mean I was supposed to say or do something I didn’t?  You mean I did or said something that I should have let lie? What the actual fuck?

So despite the constant struggle, I decide it’s a brilliant idea to take an improv class.  Yeah…it’ll be super goosey fun to put my awkwardness on display for all to see. Ha! Still, maybe part of my charm is over shooting the expectations…with gusto and confidence even…even if I do get it wrong…it’s uniquely my brand of incorrect.