Sorting Through My Solitude

I do a lot of things by myself. I live by myself. I go shopping by myself. I eat at restaurants by myself. I’m an introvert to the fullest extent, so usually, I revel in all this “me-time”, but the looks I get from strangers as I order my second gin and tonic and toast myself get a little annoying, and how often I shave my legs is directly related to the amount of human interaction I have, so I figured I’d better make some friends. The last time I made really good friends was at Notre Dame, so what better place to look for new friends than the Notre Dame Club of Cleveland? I could be sure they all shared my love of Notre Dame football and 25-cent hotdogs, and that’s what friendships are made of. The club was sponsoring a service project at the local food bank, so I signed up in hopes of meeting some other guilty Catholic introverts to befriend.

I was one of the last people to get to the food bank, so when I walked into the volunteer room, everyone had claimed their seats and the room was pretty divided. One side was full of young, well-dressed, attractive people, all paired up with a significant other and chatting away with other couples. On the other side were the rejects—single, frumpy looking men and women, complete with hair scrunchies and Notre Dame sweatshirts, staring at the floor or examining their fingernails. My own hair was scrunchy-less, but poofy. My top was kind of cute, but my shoes didn’t really match. Most significantly, I was alone. I knew where I belonged in this group. I sat next to a woman with ashy blonde hair and Velcro shoes. As desperate as I was for friends, I knew this wouldn’t work. I tried to edge my way onto the attractive people’s side by awkwardly jumping into their conversations. I overheard a man named Greg introduce himself two seats away from me and instinctively responded “Nice to meet you!” even though I was not the one he had been addressing. I shrank back into my plastic chair, accepting my seat on the friendless reject side. If I couldn’t make friends, at least I would do my part for the community by sorting some canned goods.

A man with a lobster claw for a hand was in charge of the volunteers. As he led us into the warehouse, one of the attractive people started talking to me. I yammered away, desperate to make friends. I tried to keep myself in check lest someone mistake my enthusiasm for a bubbly personality, but it was difficult when these friend-making opportunities were so few and far between. Lobster man started dividing us into pairs, and I was determined to get paired with my new best friend to solidify our friendship. I could have a shopping date planned within the hour! But then that jerk dumped me for the peppy blonde who didn’t even look like she had gone to Notre Dame. My options for partners dwindled quickly, with pre-established couples obviously picking each other. A man in his 50s wearing a Notre Dame polo that showed off his moobs grinned at me. Lobster man asked for a single volunteer. I jumped at the opportunity.

There are two jobs for volunteers at the food bank—reading expiration dates or sorting food. Since there were too many volunteers, I was placed in between an expiration date reader and a food sorter to “pick up the slack”. Both jobs are pretty easy. There was no slack. Nevertheless, I tried to help. I scanned left behind cans and boxes for expiration dates and placed them on the conveyer belt. When a jar of sauce would pass me by, I’d snatch it up and toss it in the sauce bin behind me. It was pretty mindless work, so I took the opportunity to talk to the girl next to me. She had come with her boyfriend, but as it turns out, people with significant others can be sociable! We were chatting away (me probably more than her, despite my best efforts to not look desperate), but in doing so, I started shirking my food bank responsibilities. A couple of old farts next to me had gathered all the sauces I missed and when I came to gather them for the sauce bin, the man said to me, “Finally! We thought you were never coming back!” As a knee jerk reaction, I responded with “I have ADD.” Somehow, that blatant lie was supposed to explain my long absence from the sauce bin. Then I topped off that gem by grabbing one of the cans he had set aside and saying, “This isn’t even sauce. These are diced tomatoes!” and throwing it in the sauce bin anyway. I have obviously been away from humans for too long. It's a wonder I didn't start throwing my own feces and claiming I had Asperger's as well.

After all the cans had been sorted, lobster claw man came by to thank us for our work. One of the Irish fans piped up and said she would love to help out again. Sebastian hands said we all needed more practice to master the art of spotting botulism, then singled me out. “This young lady over here was too busy being miss chatty to sort her bins!” He grabbed a can of Manwich meat with his one giant finger and thumb to demonstrate. “She’d pick a can up. Look at it. Talk some more. Look at it again. And do that about five more times before finally just putting it down on the belt! Girl, you need a lot more practice ‘fore you come back!”

I left the food bank with no phone numbers, no shopping dates, and no feeling of helping the community, since apparently I did such a crappy job at it. Maybe it’s better that I spend the majority of my time in solitude. It gives me a chance to practice swiftly reading all the expiration dates in my pantry.