Alone again, naturally
When I’m older” is what I always used to tell myself when I was younger and not allowed to go out whenever I wanted. On the rare occasions I was allowed to party it up, I was Cinderella — home by midnight. I remember hating this so much that I took a survey of my classmates’ curfews and presented it to my mother along with what I must have believed was a reasonable and convincing argument, to no avail.
My curfew now, at the ripe old age of 25, is a flexible 2 a.m. But it’s not really an issue anymore, because I would rather be home on the weekends. Why? I’m older, yes, but still as socially awkward as ever.
I loved going to gigs in college because everyone was some degree of socially awkward at gigs. I had every excuse to stand in a corner and nurse a bottle of Red Horse while watching a band on my own, or conversely, could jump around right in front of said band and sing along with absolute strangers without feeling weird because we were united by the music, guys, and then retreat alone into the aforementioned corner with my beer to brood in a thoroughly photogenic manner. I still enjoy this on occasion, but you can only see the same bands so many times, and the “hanging out” aspect of going to gigs is a little — yes — awkward for me because I feel like I have nothing to contribute to the conversation. Everyone there is cooler than I am, and they’re like one big barkada that I’m on the fringes of at best. (Music friends are awesome, though. You discover the best new bands just by listening to them talk.)
Clubbing can be even more awkward, because at least the music scene is actually my scene; the party scene was never my thing. It’s fun every now and then, of course, especially when I’ve had enough social lubricant (alcohol-free alcohol is even better) to be friendly (i.e. feeling close) and to forget that I am incapable of dancing. But unlike with gigs, where you have the excuse of being there just to see the band, it’s not cool to fly solo at a club. And even when you’re with friends, it’s so loud that you can’t talk without yelling at each other, so the only thing you can do, really, is to get drunk quick. Then it’s all fun, fun, fun, until you wake up next to your toilet and discover you’ve broken your front tooth and no one can remember how it happened. (True story!)
When my friends complain that I never want to go out, I chalk it up to my busy schedule, and the fact that my job requires me to attend multiple events a week — sometimes multiple events a day. I work hard; I’m too tired to go out after I clock out, and too lazy to get dressed and put makeup on to hit the town on the weekends after having made myself look presentable for five straight days. A girl needs some alone time in ratty pambahay to recuperate. There are books to be read, and not enough hours in the weekend to read them.
That’s not entirely a lie. But really, I’m just painfully, cripplingly shy, and I know I’m not the only one. I think I’m more engaging on the Internet than I am in person. I don’t like going out unless I’m absolutely sure I’ll have someone to be with at all times. (The last time I went clubbing was with my younger brother, and he was a sure bet as a companion because we arrived in the same vehicle, so he couldn’t leave me behind.) I’m the kind of person who sometimes thinks that not even my own friends like me; that they just put up with my presence because they’re being polite. (But only on bad days.) I really, really, really like being alone when I get the opportunity to be alone, and I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that.
So yes, home is where it’s happening. I’m home on most weekends, and I don’t feel too bad about it. Partying is fun on occasion — in fact, I really need it sometimes — but for shy people like me, it’s probably better in moderation, and only with good company. Often, when I’m out, I’m just thinking about being home. I like curling up in bed with a book on a Saturday night. Sure, I’ll look through Instagram and see all my cool friends doing cool things together, and maybe I’ll wonder why I’m not there (because no one invited me; also because almost every time anyone has ever invited me to anything, I didn’t show up), but then I wake up hangover-free the next morning, a little happier for having had some time to myself. And like Sheryl Crow said, if it makes you happy, it can’t be that bad. Right?
