I’m an awkward person. It’s genetic, I think. Although I never think of my parents as awkward, and my middle sister Marybeth could talk her way out of a gas station hold-up, my oldest sister and I are hopelessly adrift in certain social settings. 

Regardless, today I went to a coffee shop to write. Pretty safe, awkward-free situation, I assumed. Until I exit the vehicle. My Vera Bradley backpack and I hang out behind a group of people on the sidewalk for a while, waiting to cross the street. Eventually I realize that we’re not waiting at a crosswalk but a bus stop. No big deal. I’ll just casually pull out my phone like I intended to stand here pointlessly, and then strike out on my own in true J-walker fashion.

A car is coming down the hill a little faster than anticipated. I pick up the pace to a concerned canter, but I make it across intact. Once inside Crazy Mocha and off the street, my chances of doing something embarrassing go down dramatically. 

But I underestimated the mental taxation that goes into choosing a type of coffee. I shift my weight and smile-grimace at the barista in a way that I hope says, I just need a little more time. Eventually, when the silence has surpassed physiological normalcy, I opt for the time-tested, “Do you have any recommendations?”

And graciously the woman asks if I like chai? Do I like pumpkin? Do I want a pumpkin chai latte? This sounds good, but more importantly, it means I can stop standing here. I’m in the middle of staring into my wallet deciding if I want to fork over a five or ten dollar bill when the door to the street opens and one of the bus-waiting-people pokes his head inside. 

“Hi,” he says, looking at me. “I didn’t know if you were waiting on the bus but it’s coming.”

And because I’m an easily startled, awkward person, I don’t say, “Oh, that’s okay. I’m not waiting on the bus but thank you!” Instead, I blurt, “Oh, okay! Thanks!”

He goes back outside. I smile-grimace at the barista apologetically and say, “I don’t know why he thought that, but that was very kind of him!” 

The latte is sliding across the counter just as I look out and see the bus pulled to the stop and the young man gesturing towards Crazy Mocha. And the bus sits and waits. And sits and waits. For me. Coffee forgotten on the counter, I run to push open the front door and shout across the street, “I’m fine! Thank you!”, my arm waving it onward in desperation. 

The young man nods and gets on, and I go back inside with ten pairs of curious eyes on me and wish that I’d worn something other than a purple fleece from Sam’s Club on this most conspicuous of days. 

These things just happen to me. I trip on stairs, on elevators. Once I tripped during volleyball practice and the coach laid down on the gym floor to run his hand over the smooth wood and prove that there was nothing to trip over. 

I’m the type of person who passes laborers working in the blistering sun and stops to say, “Nice day for picking weeds.” 

Really, my examples are endless. 

So, what do you do if (like me) you are a naturally-born weirdo? I don’t actually know. I’m asking.

I’m not a believer in accepting everything about yourself. In fact, I believe that there are probably a lot of things about us that we should change. Selfishness, bitterness, laziness – those are weeds to be burned, not coddled. If you tend to be late (speaking from experience), and it negatively affects other people, you can’t just say – “This is the way I am!” Cop-outs are ugly things.  

But there are some things that we can’t change. Our height, for example. Your dreams of modeling in JC Penney catalogs or outshooting Candace Parker in the WNBA may never come true. Unalterable things, like the freckles on your nose. The inability to carry a tune. Some things are like tides on the seashore, dictated by something far outside of our control. 

And while I can “work” on my awkwardness (you know, get out there in the nursing homes and strike up conversations with strangers), I will likely never be more than I already am. 

Now at twenty-six, I have such a wonderful sense of self whenever I’m standing out in a downpour, my sweater slung over my head, frantically digging in my purse for car keys until I realize they’re already in my hand. Yes, this is me. And I’m okay with that. 

Change what you can. Fight when that’s an option. But when you accidentally take off with someone else’s grocery cart at the store, just embrace it. (But give it back when they ask).