Moose in the Kitchen

I used to dread talking to people. Walking up to someone, even someone like a waitress, who is literally paid not only speak to me but to bring me things, would turn me into a quivering, gelatinous mass of cowardly dysfunction. Given the number of people I walked up to and threw my arms around this weekend, that doesn’t seem to be a problem any more. Maybe it’s because I hit 30 (well, closing in on 32, but whatever) and that mythical maturity switch flipped. Maybe I finally realized that everyone is so wrapped up in their own lives and DEAR GOD DID THAT JUST COME OUT OF MY MOUTHs that they pay virtually no attention to what I’m up to unless what I’m up to is handing them an ice cream cone. Maybe it’s all the “Hey, you really do have something to contribute to the world so feel free to bask in that” work I’ve been doing over the past few years. Whatever it is, I apparently have no problem interacting with random people these days. How socially well-adjusted of me.

Saturday was one of those gorgeous blue days where Gavin Newsom issues a city-wide memo telling everyone to stop scrubbing grout, cease answering email, ditch the errands, and get thee outside. Naturally, I always obey such decrees. So I packed up my big-girl conversational skills and headed to Golden Gate park. After about forty minutes of five of us wandering separately around the park  trying to find the two who had already established themselves, we managed to converge in the right place with no search parties or smoke signals needed. (This time. Last time, I ended up accidentally circling the bison field three times, each time convinced I’d actually shifted position and wondering just how many bison fields there were in the park. It wasn’t until the bison started recognizing me and asking if I’d like a cigarette that I cottoned on.)

Go to Speedway Meadow on a sunny weekend and you’ll be greeted by groups of raucous people playing a game I can only assume is called Beer Dodge Ball. Actually, I think it’s Beer Kickball, but I never actually kicked anything, just ducked when round things flew at my head. Anyway, the game involves kicking and ducking and running and, most importantly, not spilling your beer. Also, you’re not allowed to leave second base until you’ve chugged an entire cup. Second base is conveniently marked by a keg. We joined in, which means we stood around chatting and drinking our beer, stopping only to dive out of the way if anything flew in our general direction. Eventually, I got hungry.

Here’s how far I’ve come. Several years ago, my ex and I were in New Zealand, where we got into a fight because I didn’t want to ask the waitress for the check (in his defense, I may not have accurately described the feeling of chest-caving black Mordor-infused doom and instead just appeared lazy and ornery). On Saturday, I walked right up to the grill and asked if I could make myself a hot dog.  Keep in mind, this was something of a crashed party. I didn’t realize I was going to a party, so I neglected to bring anything to contribute, neglect that would make me feel bad, except that I think there’s a flow to these things. Just keep paying that beer forward and you’re fine. Anyway, I just waltzed right up, asked for a hot dog and started grilling myself one. I only stopped grilling when someone tapped me on the shoulder (turned away from the grill for better conversational access) to inform me that my hot dog had turned a deep, rich shade of charcoal. (Luckily, my palate’s not that refined. Plaster on some ketchup and who can tell the difference?)

Later we were lying on our stomachs in the grass and someone noticed ice cream cones. (I suspect that someone was me, but memory proves hazy.) So I hopped up, identified the source and (rudely?) interrupted two women speaking rapid fire Spanish. I requested permission from the group gathered around the carton and cones and had myself some dessert.

To the uninitiated observer, it might appear that I only have this free-flowing sense of self-confidence when there’s a food-based reward in it for me. And you might be right. But it’s a start. A delicious, oreo ice cream start. And really, people just aren’t that scary. Especially if you’re friendly and remember to smile. WHO KNEW ?

Related posts:

1. Another Glimpse into the Pitch-Black Depths of My Laziness
2. God Bless American Goats
3. How (Not) To Get Invited Back
4. Hot Child in the City
5. Growing More Attached to this Whole Wedding Idea