Pity Party

I haven't been shy since I was 15, a new sophomore at the public high school after my parents realized I was too far out of the mold for the expensive private schools I'd wasted their money at.
There were days, many years previous to my self-imposed transformation to social-butterfly, when I couldn't even ask a stranger for the time. Ridiculously isolating - that condition - and one I have always been happy to have conquered.

Lately though, I find my shyness has not only returned in full, but is complicated by my inability to communicate. Persian comes to me in bits and pieces and I am now at what I would estimate is a first grade level of understanding - much less in terms of speaking. Moving beyond the baby-talk of 'I want' and all the necessary nouns has been liberating - and has been spurred on by constant exposure and a little Farsi phrasebook sweetly gifted to me by Hamid's father. But colors, numbers, a handful of new sentences, and a few adjectives get me nowhere when it comes to social situations and I end up feeling lost and quite honestly, thoroughly depressed.

There is nothing worse than sitting in the arms of my darling (who works hard to translate for me, but can't possibly help me mimic real, viable conversation in this way) while he tells some fabulous story, or hilarious joke that leaves everyone in the room laughing but me.
I haven't been the wall flower for seventeen years - and it's no fun at all to be forced back into it by circumstance.

Recently at a small party with friends I was suprised by desolation as I sat trying to keep up, trying to play along, and getting absolutely nowhere. The night started out ordinarily enough; happy to see everyone and excited to be out. But the energy in me quickly waned as a painful awareness dawned on me that I was the only one not laughing - soon enough I was exhausted and desperate to leave.

On the way home, trying to explain just what was I was feeling, I found myself blinking back tears of frustration as I worked through it all aloud.

I worry that they think I'm sullen when I'm so quiet and not laughing along, so I try harder but I worry that they think I'm strange sitting there trying to smile for no-good-reason-because-there's-nothing-else-for-me-to-do. I worry about Hamid having to translate all the time so I listen more carefully and worry that my questions about vocabulary will derail the entire conversation. I worry that they think I'm rude asking to go home at an early hour, so I sit tight, hoping it will get better, easier; but it doesn't and it all piles up as the seconds tick by ever so slowly and in my mind I'm fast-forward...at our wedding - where the audience is multiplied by a hundred and the conversation is quick and happy - and I'm worried I'll end up locked in the bathroom trying not to let the mascara-tears scar my white satin dress.

There is no way around it - the day is fast approaching - and as excited as I am the trepidation related to my new social retardation is creeping in on me like winter in Montana; promising to spill all of itself all over me all at once.
I think it's time to invest in some really good water-proof mascara.