Not Into It.

Today my Humanities prof sang us some songs that he wrote for a little production on the history of Utopia. I laughed and shook my head as he sang songs about the books we read and things we learned with his ironic rhymes and booming voice. He tapped his foot on the ground and bobbed his head as he played the little keyboard he had brought in. The whole time he sang his tunes I thought to myself: this guy knows what it means to be an educator. Throughout my classes this prof has by far been the most interesting. He uses media, music, art, and other ways of portraying information. He doesn't read from textbooks or use power point. He gives us books to read so we can discuss the relevant themes to government, education, what it means to the arts...

Then I thought of myself. Earlier I had done a presentation on my art piece. I had prepared almost five pages of double spaced notes to rattle off. My dad encouraged me to drop the notes, and I thought about it, but by the time I had my art piece set up, and I realized the entire class had showed up as opposed to the numbers that had been dwindling, I found my hands beginning to shake and my heart pounding and my bodily temperature rise. I had dragged my art project on a very loud squeeky trolly across campus, outdoors in the pouring rain (it was decently covered), to have my hair that I had straightened and backcombed turn into a wet, sloppy, frizzy mess. I was feeling less than presentable with my wet flats, regretting that I had wore a long sleeved shirt and a sweater. I stood in one spot, looking up every couple sentences, trying to keep the tone of my voice interesting, maybe even passionate in spots. I sat down, releaved, and then proceeded to watch my more than comfortable prof, in his fishing vest, talk to us about the final and sing us some diddys.

I understand that all people get nervous when in front of people, and that these were my peers not my students I was presenting for, but if I achieve the goal of becoming a teacher one day that's where I'll be. Am I up to that? To lippy, bratty teenager girls with their coverup and long eyelashes and the boys who chase after them?

Earlier in the day today, I was in my art class, working on the final sketchbook activities I need to complete for my final art project. Hauling it out of the apartment and to school felt great. Dropping it back off in the art room from that horrible trolly was even better. Even though some of the hair ruined and some of the leaves broke on its journey. To be honest, as hard as I worked on the piece, and as much as I mostly like it, I don't feel like presenting it. Presenting this obvious piece amidst my talented peers who use contemporary abstract notions to create these amazing pieces that my art prof oo's and ahh's over, along with everybody else. Realism isn't valued these days. I've always been a realist artist, but it's not where artists ARE. I admit, my pieces among every one else's seems elementary. Out of place. Like I haven't taken that step. Just take that step into oblivion. Be a true artist. My art isn't true art. So I'm working on my sketchbook, thinking about a final, and then my prof says we're going to play a game. Great. We play this fun little apples to apples type art game, and the arts education girls I was paired with, who I haven't spoken a word to all semester, chat about their education process, their art pieces, how they LOOOVVEEE this piece of art, oh that is SOO awesome, throwing in their arty words and I randomly picked pictures to descriptions like "pure", "peaceful", and "idyllic".

I'm just not into it.

I'm a socially inadequate person, who can only have a decent conversation with you if I've known you for a very long time, and have spent some kind of time one on one with you and you've proven to actually care about something I contribute to the conversation, and we have something in common. I have always known this about myself. Today is not my self-revelation day, where I say to myself "wow, I am socially inadequate, I'm going to blog about it." No, I've always been shy, slow to share ideas, slow to join into social activities for silly fears of rejection. Scared to wear the latest fashion to stand out. I don't like standing out; I'm a blender. In the singing group Panim, I never had a powerful enough voice to project properly, but was told once "Joni, you have such a great BLENDING voice. It just blends in so well we can't tell you're even singing." Blender.

At work the other night one of the more outgoing guys in the crew, who has invited me to the drinking social crazy dancing events of the Moxie's crew more than once, said something like "You see, we here at Moxies love to get out, to socialize. I mean, we're servers. All servers are outgoing." I almost laughed out loud. I'm outgoing enough to talk to strangers in work-work environment, where they expect it, enough to be pleasant and smile and maybe say a joke, usually cliche, about the weather or some well known news item.

Last night I was thinking about parental influences on children. The older you get the more you see how much you're like your parents. Those parents that in your rebellion teenage days you swore to never be like -- yeah, you're saying the same things and acting the same way. I watch my Mom closely, how she's emotional but strong, quiet but has good ideas. I watch my Dad who uses humor when he can, but is a quieter guy. I can see those things in myself. And what will my children be like? With shy guy Daniel and no speak Joni as parental roles? At least they'll be good looking.

I guess I might always be a blender. I've always fought against the notion of it, hating the very idea of it, and now growing to be comfortable with it. I'm not uncomfortable to listen to the girls chitty chatty chat chiting around me with nothing to contribute. I get it -- I can be boring, the way I portrayed my speech today. I saw the heads turned to their papers whenever I dared to peek up.

I guess I'm not into it, not like my prof there. But whatever. We can't all be outstanding. If there's anything I can't stand it's faking it. I can't fake to be interesting, or outstanding. If nothing about me is interesting, please, don't bother. I'm a loner, and I'm quiet, and I'm shy, easily embarrassed -- these are qualities that define who I am. But it sure is nice to be old enough to not be ashamed of any of the qualities in the least. Except maybe easily embarrassed.

So here is a toast to all of those in the world who are loners--uninteresting loners. To those unachievers. To the blenders. To those who don't substitute the things they believe in, but don't have to be in the spot light. I believe in you more than anyone else.