Why am I cursed with the inability to speak coherently in a social setting? Was I always gauche, bumbling, inclined to say the wrong thing at the wrong time, or worse -—say something remarkably stupid?

When I think about it… yes.

I find that distressing. You see, I love people! I love hearing about others' experiences, listening to differing opinions, learning new things. I genuinely LIKE people. But stick me in a room with some -—or even ONE— and I'm an embarrassment to my gender, my race, myself.

My intentions are good. I envision a witty me, a sparkling me, an intelligent and wise me. A "me" that people flock to just to absorb my magnificent aura. But what I envision and what I get are two very different things.

The examples of my social ineptitude are endless. Many of them, I've wiped from my memory, for they are just too painful to revisit.

The boy I had a teenage crush on… he FINALLY came to my house with his grandfather, and instead of impressing him with my witty repartee or my blossoming figure, I went and hung from a tree branch at the side of my parents' drive, near where the fellows were chatting. What did I hope he would discover about me, as I dangled from that limb? I haven't a clue what I'd hoped, but I know what he discovered. That I was HEAVY— for the branch snapped off the trunk and deposited me in a skinned-up heap at the base of the tree! I remember trying to appear as though that had been my plan, all along! Who needs a chain saw, when you have mighty Karen, the teen-age arborist, at your service?!

The three-family vacation to Old Orchard Beach… we went to Fun Town and tried the water slide. I'm not a very brave lass, so it took some urging to get me to climb up to the top of the slide. But I was game -—I had new friends to impress! No one told me that it wasn't such a good idea to go belly-down and headfirst, so I took the plunge in my own special way. Euphoric at having made it into the pool at the bottom of the slide, I jumped for joy, arms flung wide as I grinned at the other couples.

…Yup, they'd fallen out, flung clear from my bathing suit by the force of the water. And nope, I didn't notice until someone took pity on me and pointed out the obvious. The VERY obvious, thank you very much.

What a boob.

But I don't just DO stupid things; I SAY them, too. As hard as that is to believe!

Like the time an old friend came into the office with a couple of his buddies… I hadn't seen him in a while, and after being introduced to his friends, I politely commented on how good he looked. He'd obviously lost a great deal of weight, and everybody likes a compliment, don't they? He thanked me for noticing and told me he'd lost about fifty pounds. Then he leaned forward and said conspiratorially, "And Karen, I don't have any tan lines, either!"

That was all it took to make me nervous. Why did he tell me that? Was he trying to impress his friends? Flirt with an old married woman? Pretend he, himself, was something other than a fairly old man?

A woman who was socially adept would have swiftly found a diplomatic response to such a statement and changed the subject. But not me! No one has ever accused me of being a quick thinker! What I blurted out—in front of his male friends, no less—was this.

"Humph!" I snorted. "I'll believe THAT when I see it!"

For those of who you might be inclined to take a little advice, please pay close attention. That statement was NOT the correct way to change the subject. That statement was, in hindsight, a dare.

I didn't peek, really! Like proper matrons everywhere, I closed my eyes. Turned my head. And cursed my extraordinary peripheral vision and pathetically sparse eyelashes. What did I learn from this social blunder? I don't know! But all I have to do is lay eyes on this fellow and I'm immediately flustered… which is not conducive to a calm and composed demeanor.

At a Christmas party I put my foot in it again. I greeted a couple whom I hadn't seen in quite awhile, and I commented on that fact. The gentleman responded that he had been busy, and that was why I only saw him coming and going in his vehicle. He was either going TO work, or coming home FROM it, and once he got home, he liked to stay there. That was something I could understand, as I'm a homebody myself. And I jokingly said so.

"Mmmm, I know what you mean. I'd be a hermit, myself, if I could get away with it!"

There's nothing wrong with that statement, is there?

Apparently, there is.

What I thought I said was, "I, MYSELF, would be a hermit, if I could get away with it."

What they heard was, "I'd be a hermit, TOO, if I could get away with it."

Evidently, I'd called them hermits, recluses, loners —which is considered a put-down of some sort. Unaware that I'd insulted them, I wandered through the crowd, chatting and having a good time. The night was a success —or so I thought, until I was confronted by one of them a solid two weeks later and called to the carpet for labeling them "hermits." Good heavens! I was flabbergasted that —number one, they thought I'd insulted them —and number two, that it had bothered them so much that they'd stewed over it at their kitchen table. I fell all over myself apologizing for the offense, blabbering in my own unique way that OF COURSE, I wouldn't call them a name, not at a Christmas party, and not EVER! My apology was accepted (I think, but what the heck do I know?) and the issue was dropped.

But the after-effects live on! Now I don't dare speak to those people, for fear of saying something equally monstrous while intending only to make polite conversation. And then there's the worry that I've said something comparatively stupid to others in a social setting—other people who are too polite or insecure to bring the offense to my attention. It's no wonder I want to be a hermit!

And I mean that in the nicest possible way.