Shy Gal, or, Baseball Players Make Me Cry

I’m a terribly shy gal. This has been the story of my life since I was a wee tyke. The only reason I was able to get in good with the popular crew was because I would sneak in so quietly they wouldn’t notice me or pay me any mind. When I did find myself making friends, I was usually the cut-up in the crew, the one making the Seinfeld-esque jokes, keeping the kids in stitches so I wouldn’t end up needing them (i.e., getting beat up on the playground).

Getting older, not much has changed. I can go to a party, grab a beer and spend upwards of an hour scanning the room before making my move towards a conversation, hoping I don’t scare the poor sap away. My success rate at keeping them interested is about a 95%. The other 5% are guys usually looking for hot girls for the night.

Perhaps another reason I have such trouble approaching folks is the fact that Chicago, despite its fabulousness, isn’t exactly the most “approachable” city. Get too much into someone’s personal space, or dare to start a conversation on the ‘L’, and you’ll be met with an icy stare, an eye roll of some sort and, to a more aggressive degree, many, many swear words directed at you. We’re not as friendly as our Midwestern cousins in Iowa or Kansas, or our Southern distant cousins in Alabama or Georgia. But once we find the people we enjoy to be around, we’re alright with each other. And this puts me in a bind: I wish people were more approachable, but at the same time I tend to stay on guard because, after 26 years in a city, you start to embody all of the quirks and traits and personalities of that city.

Since I’m shy around normal Joes and Janes, it’s no surprise that I am extremely shy around celebrities. Or people I perceive to be celebrities because of their general awesomeness. My first brush with a minor celebrity was when I met a former White Sox pitcher outside of the ballpark. I got his autograph…and proceeded to cry. Why? Because I didn’t know what to say to him. This may have freaked him out. I seriously hope that he doesn’t remember me, because I don’t want to be known as “that weird girl who cried when I signed her baseball.” The same thing happened when I met another White Sox player at the team’s convention. Except this time, I had the decency to turn away instead of crying in his face.

The best part is that I had a do-over with this last athlete. During high school, I had an enormous crush on him. So I decided that, during my senior year, I would make a sign asking for his hand in marriage and wait for him outside of the players’ parking lot. My friend and I go to the game, leave and wait up to an hour following the final pitch…and then we saw him, walking to his SUV with his lady. And suddenly, I lost my nerve. Where it went, who knows? But I begged my friend to show him the sign for me. So she called out his name and held up the sign. The prettiest, biggest, most gorgeous smile crossed his face. And I realized that he was smiling at the girl holding the sign; not me. And I felt like a colossal idiot, especially when he walked over to autograph the sign…and then handed it back to her. She may have given it back to me after he walked away, but the experience will never ever really be mine.

(Once I find out where I stored that sign, which I had laminated the very next day, I will post a photo)

Fourth time being a charm, I had the chance to work on my conversational skills with yet another celebrity: Perry Ferrell of Jane’s Addiction and Lollapalooza fame. The husband and I spotted him in a random Southern Illinois gas station/rest stop right outside of St. Louis. After a failed attempt at a conversation with Dave Navarro, I approached Mr. Ferrell and introduced myself and spent five minutes discussing how much of a fan my father was of his music. It was the only conversation I could have, since I knew nothing of Jane’s Addiction myself. Maybe it was because it was after midnight; perhaps it was because I was outside of Chicago, but talking to him came easy. He was a wonderful man. And I thought, yes, even I can overcome a crippling shyness.

But no, no I cannot overcome a crippling shyness. Just this past week, walking down Michigan Ave, I spot my journalistic hero having a smoke outside of the Tribune Building. He’s just standing there, chatting, and I’m within breathing distance of this man. I about fainted from the thought of being so close. And what do I do with a man I hold in such high regard standing this close to me? I keep walking. And walking. I don’t turn back. Instead, I continue on with my day and on the train ride home, I ponder the many things I could have said to him. Once again, I have disappointed myself.

Perhaps I need myself a friend-making wingman. Or a time machine so I can go back and slap myself and say, “just say ‘hello’, you weirdo. And don’t cry. It makes guys who don’t know you feel weird.”