Severe, life debilitating social anxiety is no laughing matter. Most people who struggle with social anxiety choose to handle this issue with dignity. Perhaps they’ll join a self help group or try reading a self help book or look up how to say “self help” in Taiwanese. I, on the other hand, know that helping myself involves copious amounts of effort which generally turns me off, and instead of getting “self help” tattooed on my forearm, prefer to propel myself face first into society with no help of any kind. It’s how I got this scar on my forehead.

Let’s, take for instance what inevitably happens when I meet someone for the first time:

STRANGE WOMAN: “Hi, I’m Liz. Nice to meet you.”
ME:“Hi, I’m Ericka. I’m ten feet taller than you in these shoes and what size are your boobies?”

Hmmm…textbook mistake. I should have saved the shoes comment as my closing statement, adding an air of mystery and general good taste. Nobody can argue with Skecher Shape Ups. Nobody.

Let’s move on to that dastardly dance through the doorway shall we? It’s inevitable that at least three and a half times a day I’ll find myself tangoing with a stranger through a tightly spaced threshold. This is usually how that venture turns out:

STRANGE MAN: “Oh, I’m sorry, excuse me.”
ME: “Don’t be sorry. Your skin feels good against my skin.”

All right, now we notice the halfway horrified expression on the strange man’s face but that’s only because the truth is hitting him right at this particular moment: skin feels good against other skin. Don’t fight it, strange gentleman. You’ll hurt your brain.

And now for a classic case of social anxiety that usually has me in figurative tears (real crying is for baby pandas).

HUSBAND: So should we go with pulp or no pulp?
ME: Don’t look now. Shh…don’t look now. Just turn around slowly.
HUSBAND: Uh, okay.
ME: Did you see it?
HUSBAND: See what?
ME: That baby?
HUSBAND: Yeah, so?
ME: It’s judging me. I can tell.
HUSBAND: What?
ME (to baby): I told her no bangs, all right? All right you silly unknowledgeable baby! I told her no bangs!

Hmmm…babies. Such jerks. I really don’t know what to say other than I think we can all agree I handled this situation with the grace and finesse of three Princess Kates.  And yes, my husband and I wear the same outfits in public.  That way I don’t lose him in crowds.

So there you have it folks, my general social anxiety that I handle on a daily basis with no help from anyone including myself. Proof’s in the pudding: help is for losers. Unless of course I get a flat tire or super glue my hand to my face or forget my social security number (once I get that sucker memorized). In those cases, feel free to help. No, like seriously help me. I hear face gluing is no walk in the park in a pair of Skecher Shape Ups.

But otherwise? I think it’s safe to say I’ve got it all covered.

*I wrote this post hours before I read a read a funny post about depression by @AllieBrosh over at Hyperbole and a Half, so when I read her post I was all like “no way dude!”  Her post is an amazingly funny and open read that proves us slightly off-kilter chicks have something to offer, no matter how poorly wired our brains seem sometimes.  As someone who’s suffered from anxiety and depression for eleven years, all I can say is the funny sometimes comes from a darker place, but sometimes it ends up becoming your light.  Just like Skecher Shape Ups.