The Loser-Introvert

We need to start having more sympathy for these people; people like me. It's really irritating to be constantly bombarded with statements about how we’re “wasting our lives” or missing out on the “college experience”. Well, guess what? Most of us don’t give a flying frog about either of those things. I certainly do not—anymore, at least. I definitely used to though; or—more so—forced myself to. I’d be lying out of my nose if I denied that fact.

After this stupid pandemic decided to finally take a break and catch its breath during its everlasting marathon, my city’s cases started to fall. Once the vaccination rate hit 70% and the ICU beds began to empty out, the restrictions began to lift one by one over the span of a couple months. Now—I don’t know if this makes me seem insensitive—but I hated this. Obviously, I was grateful that fewer people were falling sick and that the healthcare system was starting to recover: that’s not what I hated. I hated that the streets would start to fill and that houses would start to empty. I could no longer stay at home without feeling bad or lazy. Covid could no longer be my excuse for cancelling plans to chill in bed. I actually had to—you know—interact with people now.

Ew. Gross.

I liked staying home. I was having the time of my life lounging around in sweatpants all day, doing nothing but reading and drawing. I could keep my hair tied up—even though I look like a boy when I do—and my fingernails bare. There was no one to impress except myself. I spent every hour of every day with my cat and—let me tell you something—she’s the world's best listener. She never complains or speaks back; she just vibes. I’d spend a few hours every day pretending I was a 5’11 runway model as I walked around my house to the beat of Judas by Lady Gaga. I can’t do that in public; I’d look insane.

Needless to say—I was pissed that I had to give this up. All these wonderful freedoms that were granted to me while I remained in the comforts of my own home were being ripped out of my hands. I was going to be robbed, violated! I did NOT want that—in case I haven’t made that clear enough.

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Initially, I was actually comfortable in my feelings. It was who I was and I was certain that at least one person I knew felt the same.

I kid you not, I could not have been more wrong.

Everyone—and I mean everyone—was itching to get back outside. They were practically scratching at their front doors like dogs trying to get out and pee. You would think these people had never been away from home before. Have you ever seen those videos of people practically fighting one another to be the first one inside Macy’s for their annual Black Friday sale? That’s a perfect representation of what was going on. Everyone was yearning to go out and socialize while I was still sitting in the parking lot, relaxing on my car's heated seats.

Remember that initial “comfort” I said I had about my feelings at first? Yeah, well that went away real quick. People around me had this amazing ability to make me feel bad about wanting to continue my covid lifestyle. I mean, they weren’t literally all up in my face telling me I’m a loser-introvert with no life, but it sure felt like they were. Nobody would shut up about how excited they were to party again; how the clubs would be “bumpin” after this lockdown.

Gag. Those places stink.

People were blowing up their bank accounts—practically going broke—from the non-stop shopping that took place in preparation for upcoming social events.

Ew, social events.

Imagine being excited—and spending real money—to impress random people who don’t even care about you? It felt so superficial. They attempted to convince me that they were “doing it for themselves”, but I can see right through them. If you were doing it for yourself, why weren’t you dressing up everyday during quarantine? Exactly.

I felt like I was drowning in this pool of future plans and excitement. Usually I wouldn’t mind swimming in that kind of water, but these future plans—straight up—grossed me out. My heart would drop and my anxiety would flare up every time I heard about the “after-covid plots” (“plots” means plans, by the way). I knew that my introverted-self hated the thought of going out. So why did I still go out? Why did I feel like I couldn’t stay home? I mean I live in a free country, I could have. Or could I?

All this planning made me feel insecure. I felt like the world's biggest loser staying in. I mean, come on. You were stuck inside for a year plus and you still don’t want to come out? What kind of person does that?

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Maybe it came from my FOMO (Fear of Missing Out). Maybe it's because I had just graduated high school and felt pressured to live out the “college experience”. Maybe it's because I was scared to be seen as a loser. Whatever the reason, I forced myself to do a lot of things I never thought I would. Things I never wanted to do.

I drank till my eyes became blurry and my head started to spin. I danced with boys who smelt like weed and cologne: cheap cologne, might I add. I spent my fair share of days at the mall close to my home buying things I hated wearing. I really don’t like to show skin but—since I’m young and “so full of life”—I forced myself to do it anyway. These stores are such a scam too. They ship their clothes from their labour camps in Bangladesh and then sell them to us for 10 times what it cost to make them. Anyways, my most expensive purchase ended up costing $250. For a college student like me, that is a lot of money.

I honestly hated it. I wish it could have been one of those situations where I judged too quickly from the outside but ended up loving it when I tried it, but it wasn’t. Summer break is supposed to be a time of rest and relaxation, but I had never felt more tired. All the endless plans, they took so much energy out of me.

So much.

But I kept doing it. I did it every other day—if not every single day. Club after pub after bar after party. All in the name of “living my best life”; a life I was starting to hate.

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I think it might have been about halfway through August when I finally realized. Maybe it was closer to the end? Regardless of the time, the epiphany did eventually hit me. I realized, I don’t have to do this, any of this. I can stay home. Boys don’t need to grope me in clubs and I don’t need to pretend to like it. I don’t have to fake a smile every time that disgusting whiskey is forced down my throat. I don’t have to pretend to like the burning sensation of vodka. Who in their right mind actually does? I can save my money to pay off my tuition rather than buy a flimsy dress that I might wear twice—three times if I’m lucky. I can wear turtlenecks and jeans rather than tank tops and booty shorts. I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to do. At the same time, I have all the power to do everything I do want to do. So—I decided—I am going to do just that.

Somebody randomly came up with this whole idea, this idea that going out and being reckless means you’re “living life to its fullest”. That “somebody” may have loved it—and that's great for them—but a lot of “somebodies” hate it; like me. And—you know what—that’s completely okay. No one should have to like these crazy things; I don’t have to like these crazy things.

It's okay that I loved quarantine. It's okay that I found it relaxing and refreshing. It's okay that I'm the only one in my group who hates clubbing. It’s okay that my idea of a fun Friday night is snuggling beside my cat with a cup of tea while binge watching Pretty Little Liars or Narcos. It’s all okay; okay to do what I want and stay away from what I hate.

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I genuinely have not been out since since August. It's December right now. I mean, I still invite my friends over for movie nights and—occasionally—attend my school's basketball games, but thats about it. I've been spending my free time writing and working on art. Sometimes I redecorate my room or build my cat cardboard-box-houses. Regardless, I have been loving it. I haven't been tired at all. My anxiety is practically gone. I sometimes get stressed from school, but nothing else. My home is my sanctuary and—I've learned that—there's nothing wrong with staying where I feel safe; both litterly and figuratively.

I am a proud loser-introvert—no ifs, ands, or buts.

So, I’d like to make a toast. A toast to those who hate to toast. A toast to those who hate to drink. A toast to those who hate to party. A toast to those who—if they’re being forced to toast at all—would rather toast in their soft dim-lighted living room than a loud, obnoxious pub.

We can enjoy ourselves however we see fit; no one can tell us otherwise.

Cheers.