No One Knows This About Me
Hello, my name is Tracy and I am an extrovert.
Well… actually, I’m not. I’m just an introvert who is very, very good at faking it. It’s taken me years, decades, to get this good.
I’m not saying being an introvert is bad — far from it. I’m happy to admit that sitting on my own with a cuppa, a book, or pen and paper means you can leave me for a few hours and I might not even notice you’ve gone. The world would be worse off if there weren’t introverts around. Where would we be without Albert Einstein, Rosa Parks, JK Rowling, Barack Obama or Bill Gates?
It’s the social anxiety part of being an introvert that I struggle with. The I-think-I’ll-go-sit-behind-the-pot-plant-so-no-one-notices-me anxiety that can make group gatherings torture.
It’s not as if I haven’t tried telling people. I have. Multiple times. They just get confused because I’m comfortable speaking up in meetings, lectures or seminars. I’ll even start conversations with people — provided they look more socially uncomfortable and in need of rescuing than I do.
The truth is I’ll walk out of a shop without something I really, really need because I can’t summon up the courage to ask the staff. Of course, this has meant learning to drink my tea black, but you know, I’d have to ask someone otherwise. It’s easier now I have two children with the confidence to ask for me, and they’ll often do it without prompting. (I think they might know my secret.) The thought of starting up a casual conversation in the school playground with other parents sends me into a cold sweat. It’s not as if I can easily identify anyone with similar interests — you don’t find many 45(ish) year old mothers in Motorhead T-shirts waiting outside the reception class of a village school at 3pm on a Thursday, so it’s taken over a year to make even the most tentative friendships.
Don’t offer me any awards that I need to collect in person either, I’d quite happily wave you on to the next in the queue no matter what comes attached to the award.
I’ve often thought about why. I know the psychological reasons at the heart of it, but I’m an adult now. I know how ridiculous it is, but oh, heart, you are so much slower to catch on than head. So, how do I fool people into thinking I’m confident in myself and that I have something to say that people might actually want to hear?
I fake it.
I put on this invisible fancy dress costume which makes me Tracy, the mum of two socially confident kids (not that I’m jealous). Or Tracy, the mature student who has failed and survived exams before. Or Tracy, the presenter who has spent hours researching and practising the material, including the (bad) jokes that appear on the screen. Or Tracy, the… you get the point. A costume for every occasion. It’s like a reverse version of the Emperor’s New Clothes with me the only one who knows it’s all a pretence.
I also have a secret weapon. I live with an extrovert. You know the type, always cracking jokes to complete strangers, makes life-long friends in the time it takes you to pop to the loo, and stays in contact with people he went to junior school with? He is an extrovert that understands my introversion. He knows that if I’m having a bad day one of the best things he can do is leave me alone with a book and a cup of tea (you may have picked up the subtle indications of my drug of choice). And the secret to a happy introvert/extrovert relationship? He doesn’t drag me out into the social spotlight and I don’t cramp his style. When we have to go out socially, especially with people I don’t know well, I’m OK letting him be the centre of attention while I trail along carrying the bags. Or picking stuff up off the floor (because I don’t get enough of that at home). You might even find me in the kitchen at parties, to quote Jona Lewie, not because that’s where the alcohol is, but because that’s where the washing up is. Alternatively, I’ll save us the cost of a babysitter and he can put it towards a taxi home.
There you have it. I’m not an extrovert, but, if you invite me to your party (and I can summon the courage to go), at least you won’t wake up to dirty glasses everywhere. The introvert will have washed up for you. And probably tidied and vacuumed as well.
