I have always identified as an extrovert.

A wild-haired, sassy, sarcastic, proverbial-balls-out extrovert. And I love it.

I have lots of people. I love my people. I enjoy seeing my people and engaging in social activities with them. I revel in good conversation and bask in laughter. I always leave - while tucking my balls back in - with a smile on my face, satisfied and replenished. Then I can head home and do boring shit all by myself like wipe gobs of toothpaste off the bathroom mirror or clean up dried pee off the fucking toilet seat for the tenth time this week because nobody can seem to remember to lift it unless I yell it out as they're slamming the bathroom door shut-- where was I? Oh, right.

I love people. People fill me up and make me less stabby with the pee scrubbing.

The only problem? I get really nervous meeting new people. I totally rock at established relationships, but the new ones? Ick. I know you're probably all, "Yeah, so? Everybody gets nervous, Maven. This is not an interesting fact about you." That is surface accurate. But I get extra crazy. Like, crazy piled on top of the crazy I already am, which is a significant amount of crazy, everybody.

Take a couple of months ago. Here I was, on my way to a Cirque du Soleil media night with my husband, clutching the tickets in my hands. He was excited to have a nice, enjoyable evening out with his wife. And then we got in the car.

"Why are you breathing funny?" he asked.

"I have to meet people tonight. Other bloggers, like Dani and Candace and Julie. Well, ok, I've met Julie already. And I met Dani once but I don't think she remembers me because I'm that boring in person. Anyway, it's stressful. I'm stressed. I AM STRESS," I replied between controlled breaths.

He seemed puzzled. "So? Aren't you friends online?"

I shot him a look. " THAT'S DIFFERENT."

"Um, how is that different? You talk to them all the time, don't you?"

"Yep," I panted.

"... And they like you."

"No. They think they like me."

"They like you," he said, reassuringly.

"No. They like online me. She's better," I stated matter-of-factly.

"You're the same person," he laughed.

"No, honey. Online me isn't nearly as awkward as in-person me. She has time to think of things before she says them, instead of whatever inappropriateness comes spewing forth from the depths of her mangled soul. She can be witty in 140 characters or less. Retweet-worthy witty! Nobody knows she has the attention span of a gnat. All her profile pictures have filters on them... Actually, that might be a good thing. Maybe nobody will recognize me and I can just hide in my seat and eat popcorn," I said.

He shook his head.

I slumped back in the passenger seat. "Fuck. I have confidence issues."

"You have social anxiety."

"I have everything anxiety," I pouted.

First meetings are always like first dates for me. Sure, maybe we've talked online. Maybe you've read my blog. Maybe you think you have an idea of who I am, and apparently you want to meet her. But I get panicky about it. What if I don't live up to your expectations? What if I'm not as fun or friendly or engaging as you expect me to be? And then what if I never hear from you again and am left wondering how much I sucked on a scale of 1 to 10?

I hate rejection. It's like a twisty little gut knife. My only friend in elementary school used to always threaten to go hang out with kids who were cooler than me, and I would get cold with fear. I'd then make her a lovely card telling her how much I valued our friendship, and I would sometimes even stick some of my allowance money in it in hopes that she wouldn't leave me completely friendless in the school yard.

And she wouldn't. Because who wants to leave someone who's literally paying you to be her friend? What a sweet deal.

I'd like to think I've come a long way since then. Now I only buy people coffee to be my friend. On an income ratio scale, that's some serious progress.

I want everyone to like me, which is an absolute impossibility. I know this. I'm generally ok with that fact in the really real world, especially when it comes to my fellow school parents. Not everyone is my cup of tea americano, so why would I expect I'm everyone's cup of tea half-sweet no whip pumpkin spiced latte? I can't be. I won't be. I'm not compatible with everyone. For some people, my awesomeness is like kryptonite, slowly poisoning them and making it impossible for them to stop meteors from hitting the earth and shit. We can't have that. And if you have no sense of humour and/or you can only talk about Pinterest crafts or Sunday school or insurance premiums, you are probably my form of kryptonite as well.

But I'd be lying if I didn't say I want everyone who reads my blog to like me in person. I put myself out on here all the time. Hell, I just admitted I used to pay my friend to be my friend. That's personal, yo. That's heart-on-my-sleeve sharing. We're now the emotional equivalent of second base. I want you to still respect me in the morning.

Except maybe you won't. And maybe I'll go to the circus and you'll meet me in person and you'll be all, "Oh, that was disappointing. I expected her to be funnier and for her skin to have more contrast or something." I have to be ok with that.

Or maybe you won't think that, and you'll actually find me kind of endearing in that quirky way. And you'll become one of my people and I'll become one of yours and we'll make friendship bracelets and shit. And I'll be able to keep my allowance for once and maybe save up for that bike.

Or maybe we'll meet somewhere in the middle, like I did with the group I saw at the circus that night. They are slowly becoming my people, whether they realize it or not. But I like my people, and sometimes my people get coffee.

And weirdness.

Off to tuck my balls back in.