Excuse Me, May I Borrow Your Vibe?

Note: Contains an excessive use of parentheses (I’m sorry, okay? I just couldn’t help myself. It’s like the cocaine of punctuations and I’m an addict).


I seem to have a problem. And freezing in mid-step, like Jim Carrey does in Mask, when it comes to making conversation with attractive women seems to be the very least of it. Turns out, there is something wrong with my vibe. Should have smacked me right in the middle of my face, but like with everything else that involves a combination of subtlety and the art of self-observation, I only recently figured this one out. Apparently, being single most of my life wasn’t a good enough hint (Sigh. Some people are so daft, I tell you).

So. This vibe. It’s not weird in a I-like-you-so-much-I-will-stalk-you-till-apocalypse way, mind you. I do wish it was that because, that could’ve been fixed with a crash course on body language, a lesson on the appropriate duration of eye contact with strangers and a few hours of counselling. But, no. Unfortunately, mine seems to run a little deeper considering that amount of time it has had to hone itself (Yes, I am talking about my vibe like it’s alive. It has to be, given the chaperone-from-the-60’s like control it exerts on my relationship status).

I have tried breaking this problem down to the best of my abilities and I’m now sure that this malfunctioning vibe has several reasons behind it (Reasons I’ve clumsily attempted to fix). To begin with, we have the decades of confusion about my preferences (There have been only two with the third one running, so don’t picture me as a sour sixty year old. Please. Also, I mean sexual preferences not dietary). This reason made a lot of sense in my overworked elf of a brain. Simply because, if you’re not sure about who you want to be with, you will be sending out that unsure vibe, right? The one that says, look I’m not ready so back off. I get that. I think I did send that vibe out. And I behaved in a very unsure way as well. Flirting and then backing off (It could’ve been chickening out but let’s stick to backing off, okay? Okay). I’m not really surprised that I coasted through the hormone-filled school and college years without being in a single relationship.

The second reason that compounds the problem, according to me, is the general shyness. I preferred books over people and to some extent, I still do. In school, instead of giggling with a gang of PYTs about cute boys, I chose to shower all my love and affection on the works of Enid Blyton, Mr. Grisham, Mr. Archer and many others (Stop judging me. Today, the list also includes “proper” writers). In college, I was either paying attention in class (Come on, say it with me – G.E.E.K) or zoning out while we hung out in the canteen (I have no idea what I was thinking about. But it’s very likely that it involved an intense debate with myself about what I could eat next). This reason is the culprit behind my cold hands and temporary inability to get the right words out or make eye contact when a hot woman chooses to make conversation with me. It is because of this very reason that I can never ever confidently step up to a woman I fancy and let loose that very funny opening line I’ve been rehearsing in my head a million times (That’s an exaggeration. I do it only like, 20 times).

The third reason could be the goofiness that I seem to radiate. I think if my aura had a name, that would be it: Goofy. I can’t help that I’m like this. I try to control it, but it keeps slipping out like an exhibitionist’s dick (Oh, get over it. Yes. I make really sad and tasteless jokes too). What I’ve learnt over the years is that Goofy never gets the girls. Or boys. (I know what joke you’re thinking of leaving as a comment. I know. And I’m watching you). Goofy is by default everyone’s good friend. The one nobody can picture themselves with. The one nobody can think of ‘ín that way’. If Friend Zone were a country, guess who would be president? That’s right. Goofy. So, I got working on this one. Now I continue being funny but hold back on the Goofy (I’m still working on leaning closer and using a husky voice to be smooth and funny, all at the same time. Just give me some time).

So these were the things I could put my finger on that seemed to be tripping up my vibe (Maybe I should’ve called it mojo. Would’ve sounded so much cooler). And as a way of fixing them, I’ve figured out that I like women more than men. I’ve toned down my goofiness. And I’ve decided to power my way through the general shyness (My alter-ego is rolling her eyes and sniggering). Ergo, like the cliché goes, I’m single and ready to mingle (With a lot of trepidation and reluctance). Now all I need is someone to tell me exactly what vibe I’m giving out now and how to fix it if it’s the wrong one. And if it can’t be fixed, then point me to someone who can lend me the right one long enough for me to stop being single.

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Lady Jughead lives and writes in the city she loves and hates, Bombay. Without meaning to and harbouring mixed feelings about it (You’ll see the irony in just a bit), she’s forever wandering in the murkiness that exists between straight and gay, clear and clueless, butch and femme, cute and hot, and genius and insane. All of which leave her with a question that often occupies a significant portion of her cognitive capacity – is she Just Perfect or is she falling fast into the deep chasm of obscurity called Just Average?
Lady Jughead

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