Social Work

I don't believe in this nonsense about people being a product of their environments. I'm a product of my hormones, and I have proof.
Last night, while walking down the long-ass "K" corridor in the Chicago O'Hare airport, I saw a pretty girl. A reeeeeeeally pretty girl. She was petite, had irritatingly-perfect shiny black hair, and was just sitting there, all alone, waiting for her plane. So lonely.

We locked eyes.
And then she smiled. She was just being friendly, but still - a big smile.

WOW. It was like God smiling - her face split open like the sun and she had more perfect white teeth than any mortal has. So beautiful.

I tripped.
I tripped like a 14-year-old boy with acne and braces. I tripped on my own feet and promptly fell on my ass, knocking down my roller bag and causing the guy behind me to hop over it with a squeal like a little girl.

Now, I'm a blusher, because I happen to be goddammit Caucasian and blond, and my face was blazing. I looked up at the pretty girl - she saw the whole thing go down, and she was definitely trying not to laugh.

I picked myself up with great dignity, refused to glance back at Hot Girl, and went to drown my sorrows at Cinnabon. (Hello, you delicious Caramel Pecanbon. You love me just the way I am, don't you?)Didn't you always figure that, at some point, you would outgrow this kind of shit? You would become suave, cool, and collected, and girls would fling themselves at you. At least that's what I was counting on.

This is what I pictured happening to me on a daily basis when I grew up: And the reality is that I can't even function in a public place if there happens to be even one cute female in the immediate vicinity. I stammer and my ears turn red and I trip. And there's no growing out of it.