On growing up, or really not
It was 2008, on some beach like all the other SoCal beaches, with some boy kind of like all the other SoCal boys, except his arm was around me.
It was my first...whatever. Whatever you would call a non-relationship with a boy you've fooled yourself into thinking you want a relationship with. Definitely my first arm-slipped-casually-around-the-shoulder-with-no-comment-or-acknowledgement. As if this is what people just do. So we're on the beach, countable days away from graduation and the end of it all. Or the beginning, but it didn't feel that way. And we're talking about the future in that half-terrified, half-intrigued way that seniors do, and his arm is around me.
Then there is this moment, where all talking stops and there's just eye contact and the ocean, and I know what's coming.
And it's like I'm just a kid again; they're expecting me to do something great like ride that bike without any assistance or climb the rock wall like all the other kids on the second grade field trip, but it just feels wrong. How can they expect me to do that? I'm not ready.
So there's the romantic, ocean-y, moon-y absence of sound, and he's looking at me and I'm giving myself a little schizophrenic pep talk in my head, and he gets closer and closer and that strange face is right there and--
"I can't."
[Pause where I wish it could have just been the end of the scene but instead it keeps going like real life.]
"I'm sorry."
He says it's ok. We keep walking, there's more ocean, more college talk, even more arm-around-the-shoulder, but really it's over. Really in that moment he became one of those people on the growing list of people I will try to avoid eye contact with in the Santa Clarita Valley. My First Non-Kiss.
***
So it's 2012, another senior year, and I'm at a bar.
I'm one of those people who has been legally allowed to drink for almost a year, but still feels scandalized by it. Like inside, I'm just giggling like "I just ordered a drink! And they can't say anything about it!" and still half expect those mall cops who really have no authority to come and bust me.
But I'm sitting at the bar with the same people who have been with me since high school, some even since elementary school, and we're still talking about the boy who swallowed a quarter in fifth grade then brought it to school for show and tell. He's at the bar too. That's what it's like in this town.
And then in walks that phantasm from four years ago, Anonymous Beach Boy. He looks like he's grown up-- glasses, scruff, button down shirt. But hey, maybe we do too (I mean, we have drinks!) And he's with some other people who I am officially too old and self-confident to be intimidated by. And yet...
So the new game of the night is the walk-by. Will we make eye contact? Chat? Ignore entirely? Trip in the heels we never became comfortable in and make fools of ourselves like in high school?
The consensus seems to be "ignore entirely." Clearly, we are too old and sophisticated to even remember the awkward beach nights of yore.
So we plan our route, choosing the back exit that leads to a frozen yogurt shop that we just need to visit, conveniently passing both beach boy and quarter boy.
We stand up slowly, stretch, prepare ourselves, aaaand strut.
Two feet, five feet, this bar is too small, I'm approaching his back, willing him to turn, willing, willing, and...
He turns, looks over his shoulder, and gives me the nod-and-closed-mouthed-smile.
"Oh, hey," I say without a pause in stride.
Level two greeting in guy world. Great success.
***
So what's the epilogue to this awkward encounter? I guess I'm writing because growing up is a funny thing and maybe an illusion. I've had a few more arms slipped around me, but have I really changed? Am I really ready to be an adult, or is every sip of alcohol and every encounter with a new guy going to make me giggle and wonder how I'm fooling everyone?
Maybe this is what the adults in our lives aren't telling us. Maybe it's all just playground games forever.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Sunday, October 2, 2011
pro tips: walking
If you are in a hurry to get somewhere, but you really don't want to talk to the person walking ahead of you, there are several options:
- Forsake your schedule and pause to tie your shoe (don't worry, no one cares enough about you to notice that those flip flops don't have laces) or execute some other unnecessary task. Give Undesirable No. 1 a little head start, then maintain the 13 feet between you as if they are sacred. Try not to make any sudden movements that would cause this person to turn around and realize the seriousness with which you are avoiding them. In case of such an emergency, look as surprised as you can in front of those accusing eyes and say something like, "Did you get a haircut? Totally didn't recognize you..." Great success.
- (Douche option): Skip all this nonsense and hurry by the person to get to class. Girls, keep your gaze fixed on your gigantic abyss of a purse as if the thing you are searching for inside it will cure cancer. Guys, you're kind of screwed. Tie that shoe.
P.S. If anyone has been reading the Point Weekly, I want you to know that I'll be suing their arses for copyright infringement on that awkward sea lion.
P.P.S. Just kidding, I helped create that bad boy. Hope you enjoy. Oh the tangled web of Loma media...
- Forsake your schedule and pause to tie your shoe (don't worry, no one cares enough about you to notice that those flip flops don't have laces) or execute some other unnecessary task. Give Undesirable No. 1 a little head start, then maintain the 13 feet between you as if they are sacred. Try not to make any sudden movements that would cause this person to turn around and realize the seriousness with which you are avoiding them. In case of such an emergency, look as surprised as you can in front of those accusing eyes and say something like, "Did you get a haircut? Totally didn't recognize you..." Great success.
- (Douche option): Skip all this nonsense and hurry by the person to get to class. Girls, keep your gaze fixed on your gigantic abyss of a purse as if the thing you are searching for inside it will cure cancer. Guys, you're kind of screwed. Tie that shoe.
P.S. If anyone has been reading the Point Weekly, I want you to know that I'll be suing their arses for copyright infringement on that awkward sea lion.
P.P.S. Just kidding, I helped create that bad boy. Hope you enjoy. Oh the tangled web of Loma media...
Sunday, September 4, 2011
get awkward party!
Good morning, fellow Lomans and random assortment of people who are obsessed with me, it's good to be back. Another year, another world of Point Loma potential! I think I'm going to start a pool for who can correctly guess the number of times Mark Carter will cry this semester. He's on the schedule four times, so I'm gonna say about 12. Don't get me wrong, I love his sensitive side! I love it so much I might as well profit on it.
Since I have been away from my blogging post for a fortnight, I thought it'd be good to do some back to school catch up with my Five Top Awkwardnesses of Week One. Follow me!
5. Sitting five feet away from yet another student wearing footie pajamas to the movie in the Greek, Olivia and I debate the merits of such fashion. It ends with a too-loud declaration of, "Footie pajamas? Come on Loma. I thought that was funny three years ago..." Hope I didn't hurt those fragile 12-year-old feelings.
4. An acquaintance of ours who will remain nameless (whose last name is violent!) makes his way through the caf innocently enough. He glances in our direction, appraises, does not reciprocate our friendly eye contact and nods, and walks by. We giggle at our inadequacy. Meanwhile, acquaintance boy (let's call him Justin) continues his quest for caf seating to no avail. We watch him pause mid-ramp, consider his very limited options, and very half-heartedly turn around and come crawling back to us. "Oh hey guys!" Oh hey my arse, Justin Munches. We know utter desperation when we see it.
It turned out to be a very pleasant conversation, and I am actually a big fan of old Justin, but next time RECOGNIZE FRIEND GLORY WHEN YOU SEE IT.
3. This is more like a daily battle than a weekly highlight, but raise your hand if you've ever experienced the walking-past-each-other-conversation. You know, that thing where you're walking towards each other and care just enough to make contact, but not enough to pause your life in any way for this person. (Now Simon says put your hand down). I'm as guilty of it as the next person; I'm walking, I see that girl I took communication with when I was too young to know better, I throw out the requisite, "How's it going?" and pray that her answer is two words or less. Really, people, think of it as a challenge to sum up the entirety of your being into a handy phrase like, "Fine, thanks!" or, "Hanging in!" That's the courteous thing to do. But just once I want to try a response like, "Planning to jump off sunset cliffs later, you?" to spice things up a bit.
2. More of my favorite caf drama: The Beverage Showdown. I wait patiently on one side of the Pepsi machine, cup in hand, when all of the sudden some hussy gets in line on the other side, plotting her move! Cue 8 Mile theme. The guy innocently filling his Mountain Dew in front of us steps out of the line of fire, unaware of what he is narrowly missing, and it's on. She moves forward, hesitates, and decides to play the Loma way instead: "You go ahead :)" Honey, two can play at that. "Oh no, you go :D" She glances at the growing crowd behind us (okay, the sad freshman just wanting to get a damn soda), and submits.
That's what I thought, inferior lower classwoman!
Yes, I realize that I originally wanted to get my drink first, but it became so much more. It was about the principle.
Besides, all of this became a moot point the next day when that machine started vibrating uncontrollably...really, if the thing explodes we all lose.
1. My moment of shame. It pains me to write, but this is a place for full disclosure: I, who know the names and background stories of so many many people who will never know mine, forgot someone's name. Not just anyone, a girl I've had three classes with. What would Katie Purcell think of me?
It started off in class the other day. (To make matters worse) she greets me by name: "Hi Hallie! I like that shirt." No need for a first-name response, so I'm in the clear. She's such a nice girl too! But the really great thing about her is this canvas and leather, neutral tone, perfect-sized backpack that I have been searching for all summer. Really. So here comes the ethical dilemma: to keep my mouth shut, know that I have not called her by the wrong name, and allow the most wonderful backpack in creation to slip through my fingers? OR, to take a stab at the name, query about the backpack, and find out where to purchase such a piece of accessory heaven?
I figure the spirit will move me toward the right name. So I think about it. Stare at that face waiting for it to speak to me, scan the skin for a very narcissistic yet helpful identifying tattoo...nothing. Then a little voice in my head says Kat? Hmm, Kat. Sounds plausible, nice and short, backpack in arm's reach...yes, Kat will be your name! As we are leaving class, I see her walking away and I almost miss my chance. Desperate for double-strap comfort, I call out, as indistinguishably as possible, "katilikeyourbackpackwheredyougetit?"
She frowns a little, pauses, and says, "Urban."
Great success!
3 hours later, mid-Problem Solving, it dawns on me: Katie!
"NOOOO(slow motion falling from chair, papers flying, heads turning)OOOOO!"
And I wake up in the wellness center.
Okay no. But I did feel sort of bad about it.
And that, my friends, is just the first week. Stay tuned.
Since I have been away from my blogging post for a fortnight, I thought it'd be good to do some back to school catch up with my Five Top Awkwardnesses of Week One. Follow me!
5. Sitting five feet away from yet another student wearing footie pajamas to the movie in the Greek, Olivia and I debate the merits of such fashion. It ends with a too-loud declaration of, "Footie pajamas? Come on Loma. I thought that was funny three years ago..." Hope I didn't hurt those fragile 12-year-old feelings.
4. An acquaintance of ours who will remain nameless (whose last name is violent!) makes his way through the caf innocently enough. He glances in our direction, appraises, does not reciprocate our friendly eye contact and nods, and walks by. We giggle at our inadequacy. Meanwhile, acquaintance boy (let's call him Justin) continues his quest for caf seating to no avail. We watch him pause mid-ramp, consider his very limited options, and very half-heartedly turn around and come crawling back to us. "Oh hey guys!" Oh hey my arse, Justin Munches. We know utter desperation when we see it.
It turned out to be a very pleasant conversation, and I am actually a big fan of old Justin, but next time RECOGNIZE FRIEND GLORY WHEN YOU SEE IT.
3. This is more like a daily battle than a weekly highlight, but raise your hand if you've ever experienced the walking-past-each-other-conversation. You know, that thing where you're walking towards each other and care just enough to make contact, but not enough to pause your life in any way for this person. (Now Simon says put your hand down). I'm as guilty of it as the next person; I'm walking, I see that girl I took communication with when I was too young to know better, I throw out the requisite, "How's it going?" and pray that her answer is two words or less. Really, people, think of it as a challenge to sum up the entirety of your being into a handy phrase like, "Fine, thanks!" or, "Hanging in!" That's the courteous thing to do. But just once I want to try a response like, "Planning to jump off sunset cliffs later, you?" to spice things up a bit.
2. More of my favorite caf drama: The Beverage Showdown. I wait patiently on one side of the Pepsi machine, cup in hand, when all of the sudden some hussy gets in line on the other side, plotting her move! Cue 8 Mile theme. The guy innocently filling his Mountain Dew in front of us steps out of the line of fire, unaware of what he is narrowly missing, and it's on. She moves forward, hesitates, and decides to play the Loma way instead: "You go ahead :)" Honey, two can play at that. "Oh no, you go :D" She glances at the growing crowd behind us (okay, the sad freshman just wanting to get a damn soda), and submits.
That's what I thought, inferior lower classwoman!
Yes, I realize that I originally wanted to get my drink first, but it became so much more. It was about the principle.
Besides, all of this became a moot point the next day when that machine started vibrating uncontrollably...really, if the thing explodes we all lose.
1. My moment of shame. It pains me to write, but this is a place for full disclosure: I, who know the names and background stories of so many many people who will never know mine, forgot someone's name. Not just anyone, a girl I've had three classes with. What would Katie Purcell think of me?
It started off in class the other day. (To make matters worse) she greets me by name: "Hi Hallie! I like that shirt." No need for a first-name response, so I'm in the clear. She's such a nice girl too! But the really great thing about her is this canvas and leather, neutral tone, perfect-sized backpack that I have been searching for all summer. Really. So here comes the ethical dilemma: to keep my mouth shut, know that I have not called her by the wrong name, and allow the most wonderful backpack in creation to slip through my fingers? OR, to take a stab at the name, query about the backpack, and find out where to purchase such a piece of accessory heaven?
I figure the spirit will move me toward the right name. So I think about it. Stare at that face waiting for it to speak to me, scan the skin for a very narcissistic yet helpful identifying tattoo...nothing. Then a little voice in my head says Kat? Hmm, Kat. Sounds plausible, nice and short, backpack in arm's reach...yes, Kat will be your name! As we are leaving class, I see her walking away and I almost miss my chance. Desperate for double-strap comfort, I call out, as indistinguishably as possible, "katilikeyourbackpackwheredyougetit?"
She frowns a little, pauses, and says, "Urban."
Great success!
3 hours later, mid-Problem Solving, it dawns on me: Katie!
"NOOOO(slow motion falling from chair, papers flying, heads turning)OOOOO!"
And I wake up in the wellness center.
Okay no. But I did feel sort of bad about it.
And that, my friends, is just the first week. Stay tuned.
Monday, June 13, 2011
hearing older people talk about technology
Overheard conversation:
Woman 1: Well, you don't have to send it to all of them, you know.
Woman 2: Oh is there a way to do that? I was wondering--
Woman 1: You just hit 'Reply.' Not 'Reply to all.' Yeah it's really easy. (Crosses her arms and nods wisely.)
Such an interesting thing. Has that same strange mixture of amusement, pity, and discomfort that comes with seeing a teacher outside of school.
Woman 1: Well, you don't have to send it to all of them, you know.
Woman 2: Oh is there a way to do that? I was wondering--
Woman 1: You just hit 'Reply.' Not 'Reply to all.' Yeah it's really easy. (Crosses her arms and nods wisely.)
Such an interesting thing. Has that same strange mixture of amusement, pity, and discomfort that comes with seeing a teacher outside of school.
Friday, June 10, 2011
[insert graduation pun]
Okay, so maybe you all thought I was the only one raptured up, but actually I'm still here. And maybe you all thought that when I said I would be blogging in the "next few days," I meant I would be blogging in the next few days. But I was going for the loose definition of the term, and what is time anyway? Lesson 1: do NOT trust a writer to follow through. Lesson 2: when she comes crawling back with peace offerings of witty social commentary, embrace her into your virtual arms! It's what Jesus would do.
On these notes, I am putting off my caf rant for a bit to tell you about the delicious awkwardness of elementary school graduations. In particular, my little sister's graduation yesterday.
It started off well enough with an electric guitar rendition of the national anthem ("boy have things changed since back in my day," amirite?) and a mass orchestral throat-clearing. I'm not sure how everyone knows this code, but apparently, "Please take your seats" also means, "and take care of any bodily noises you must make in the mass chaos of sitting down." The coughs were top-notch, really. And then a messy pledge of allegiance in which all of the adults forgot that at an elementary school, there must be at least a two second pause between lines: "I PLEDGE allegiance...................... ...............TO the flag (which flag?) ...........................................................of the uNITed STATES of aMERica..."
Then, of course, came the technical difficulties. Microphones not working, wrong songs playing, speaker feedback, oh my! But the worst part was how embarrassed the coordinating teacher was about all of this. "I'm so sorry; I swear we practiced!" You'd think one of the kids had ripped off her clothes to reveal a glitter pasty* or something... Look, lady, it's a sixth grade graduation. My standards really weren't that high.
The theme for this graduation was "Set the Future on Fire!," which led to a number of analogies that were stretches at best. Stuff along the lines of, "Your education is the spark that ignites you to burn brightly for years to come," and, "Our friendships are like fireworks of many colors and shapes. They intertwine in the sky, representing our relationships that will last forever." You know, like all those eternal fireworks you still see in the sky every day. And this insightful theme culminated in a performance by the entire graduating class of (any guesses? Think painfully obvious.....) "Firework" by Katy Perry. Bhtcsbimd, air? (See paragraph 3, line 2.) Gotta love children who are even less enthused to be singing Katy Perry than you are to be hearing it.
As the kids got their diplomas, each had to say how he or she would "set the future on fire." None of their answers were quite as good as my friend Trevor's when he finished elementary school ("I'm going to be a power ranger"), but there were some winners. Except if all these kids' predictions come true, then about half of the population will be going to UCLA or becoming veterinarians. I kept tally: eight people setting the future on fire with their animal care skills. Really, how many veterinarians do you think there are in the world? Probably about eight.
I'll leave you with some of my favorite wise quotations from sixth grade graduation:
- "School is not just about really fun experiences, it's also about lessons."
- "I'm going to set the future on fire by helping all the poverty countries of the world."
And, the ever ironic:
- "I'm going to set the future on fire by becoming a firefighter."
* I researched the singular form of "pasties" for about seven minutes. Results are inconclusive. If you want to stand up for "pastie," we can discuss later.
On these notes, I am putting off my caf rant for a bit to tell you about the delicious awkwardness of elementary school graduations. In particular, my little sister's graduation yesterday.
It started off well enough with an electric guitar rendition of the national anthem ("boy have things changed since back in my day," amirite?) and a mass orchestral throat-clearing. I'm not sure how everyone knows this code, but apparently, "Please take your seats" also means, "and take care of any bodily noises you must make in the mass chaos of sitting down." The coughs were top-notch, really. And then a messy pledge of allegiance in which all of the adults forgot that at an elementary school, there must be at least a two second pause between lines: "I PLEDGE allegiance...................... ...............TO the flag (which flag?) ...........................................................of the uNITed STATES of aMERica..."
Then, of course, came the technical difficulties. Microphones not working, wrong songs playing, speaker feedback, oh my! But the worst part was how embarrassed the coordinating teacher was about all of this. "I'm so sorry; I swear we practiced!" You'd think one of the kids had ripped off her clothes to reveal a glitter pasty* or something... Look, lady, it's a sixth grade graduation. My standards really weren't that high.
The theme for this graduation was "Set the Future on Fire!," which led to a number of analogies that were stretches at best. Stuff along the lines of, "Your education is the spark that ignites you to burn brightly for years to come," and, "Our friendships are like fireworks of many colors and shapes. They intertwine in the sky, representing our relationships that will last forever." You know, like all those eternal fireworks you still see in the sky every day. And this insightful theme culminated in a performance by the entire graduating class of (any guesses? Think painfully obvious.....) "Firework" by Katy Perry. Bhtcsbimd, air? (See paragraph 3, line 2.) Gotta love children who are even less enthused to be singing Katy Perry than you are to be hearing it.
As the kids got their diplomas, each had to say how he or she would "set the future on fire." None of their answers were quite as good as my friend Trevor's when he finished elementary school ("I'm going to be a power ranger"), but there were some winners. Except if all these kids' predictions come true, then about half of the population will be going to UCLA or becoming veterinarians. I kept tally: eight people setting the future on fire with their animal care skills. Really, how many veterinarians do you think there are in the world? Probably about eight.
I'll leave you with some of my favorite wise quotations from sixth grade graduation:
- "School is not just about really fun experiences, it's also about lessons."
- "I'm going to set the future on fire by helping all the poverty countries of the world."
And, the ever ironic:
- "I'm going to set the future on fire by becoming a firefighter."
* I researched the singular form of "pasties" for about seven minutes. Results are inconclusive. If you want to stand up for "pastie," we can discuss later.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
caf files 1
Hello friends. Today I have a very special topic that is near and dear to my heart: the awkwardness of the caf. Since the place is being renovated for next year, I thought, "What better way to enshrine it than to pick apart its awkwardness on the internet?" So for the next few days I will be bringing you the highlights of my folly in our beloved Nicholson Commons.
Number 1:
Probably the greatest source of rosy cheeks in the cafeteria is the ominous task of finding the people you came with. You know you have to; you know it's going to be impossible, like they sat at that one table downstairs around the corner completely out of view, or decided for the first time in three years that it was a nice enough day to sit outside. So you linger at the silverware cart (Those are some nice spoons...) in apprehension.
Sometimes I try to find my friends from that safe zone of the cart, but it almost never works. God laughs in my foolish face: "If you want the comfort of a social group, you better pay your dues meandering. It's not like these things are given freely." Touché, Lord.
So I begin the journey, employing a practiced look of Glancing Nonchalantly, and not Desperately Scanning to Avoid Social Destruction, and I see a lot of nice people who I could sit with. They even give me the "There's a seat right here!" look, but alas. The unwritten friend code (section 93) says that you do NOT betray the people you came with. Don't be a Boromir, be a Sam.
So I continue on my quest, passing table after table of people who have no doubt been watching my progress and are judging me for spending such a long time confused and alone...until finally I see that waving friend like a rescue helicopter over the choppy ocean of failure. See, masses, I belong to someone!
And the thing is, the thing that gets me every time in my irony bone, they're sitting at the table right-the-eff in front of where I began my search! It's like I have a blind spot to those tables that are right in front of the silverware. Man, do I hate that discovery. But at least at this point I am safe in my cocoon of snuggly acceptance. Now I am free to begin whatever new awkward experience old Nicholson throws at me (sly dog). Stay tuned.
Number 1:
Probably the greatest source of rosy cheeks in the cafeteria is the ominous task of finding the people you came with. You know you have to; you know it's going to be impossible, like they sat at that one table downstairs around the corner completely out of view, or decided for the first time in three years that it was a nice enough day to sit outside. So you linger at the silverware cart (Those are some nice spoons...) in apprehension.
Sometimes I try to find my friends from that safe zone of the cart, but it almost never works. God laughs in my foolish face: "If you want the comfort of a social group, you better pay your dues meandering. It's not like these things are given freely." Touché, Lord.
So I begin the journey, employing a practiced look of Glancing Nonchalantly, and not Desperately Scanning to Avoid Social Destruction, and I see a lot of nice people who I could sit with. They even give me the "There's a seat right here!" look, but alas. The unwritten friend code (section 93) says that you do NOT betray the people you came with. Don't be a Boromir, be a Sam.
So I continue on my quest, passing table after table of people who have no doubt been watching my progress and are judging me for spending such a long time confused and alone...until finally I see that waving friend like a rescue helicopter over the choppy ocean of failure. See, masses, I belong to someone!
And the thing is, the thing that gets me every time in my irony bone, they're sitting at the table right-the-eff in front of where I began my search! It's like I have a blind spot to those tables that are right in front of the silverware. Man, do I hate that discovery. But at least at this point I am safe in my cocoon of snuggly acceptance. Now I am free to begin whatever new awkward experience old Nicholson throws at me (sly dog). Stay tuned.
Thursday, May 12, 2011
addendum
How could I forget the awkward-orgy known as passing the peace?
Every time the pastor says those fated words, I have a 2-second panic attack. Sometimes some good samaritan will come to my rescue-- I turn around, scanning in desperation, she meets my gaze with a Christian smile that says, "It'll be okay. I will shake that socially inept hand of yours," and we complete the act with little psychological damage.
But on some days, when maybe my hair is not combed quite right or my smile is not radiant enough, I can't get any peace. I look to my right, the nice young man is shaking hands with the couple in front of him. I look to my left, my best friend is the life of the pew party. I turn around and see only the backs of heads. Even the old people who can hardly see whose hands they're shaking are cooler than I am. I am an island in the middle of peace and rejection. Sometimes I don't shake a single hand.
Don't let this happen to you on Sunday, friends.
Every time the pastor says those fated words, I have a 2-second panic attack. Sometimes some good samaritan will come to my rescue-- I turn around, scanning in desperation, she meets my gaze with a Christian smile that says, "It'll be okay. I will shake that socially inept hand of yours," and we complete the act with little psychological damage.
But on some days, when maybe my hair is not combed quite right or my smile is not radiant enough, I can't get any peace. I look to my right, the nice young man is shaking hands with the couple in front of him. I look to my left, my best friend is the life of the pew party. I turn around and see only the backs of heads. Even the old people who can hardly see whose hands they're shaking are cooler than I am. I am an island in the middle of peace and rejection. Sometimes I don't shake a single hand.
Don't let this happen to you on Sunday, friends.
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