Let me start off by saying that I have a huge personal bubble. I am definitely the person who will be standing on the edge of a group instead of in the middle. I am the person who will deliberately walk backwards to escape someone who inches closer with every sentence in our conversation. I will back up until I hit a wall, and then I will walk sideways like a crab to avoid further confrontation and the possibility of spittle on my face. Crowds freak me out, which eliminates bars, traffic, the mall at Christmas, Backstreet Boys concerts, and office parties from my repertoire.
I’d like to share a pictorial representation of how I feel in a crowd:
If you type “fear of crowds” into your favorite internet search engine, you can read all sorts of helpful advice on how to fix your problem, such as a) seek out crowds and make yourself a part of the action, or b) try to find something in the crowd that you can control, like your breathing or the pace of your footsteps. There are a lot of people I know that adore being in crowds, and they thrive on the energy and the excitement of meeting new people. There’s the ones who go out every weekend, wear sparkly shirts with sequins, and text more than once a week. They’re just like me in that they don’t worry about controlling themselves in a crowd.
What worries me about crowds is EVERYONE ELSE. You can’t control where other people walk, or how close they stand to you, or whether they’ll get totally plastered and do stupid things like make you wear a necklace with plastic molded body parts. I feel like the petting zoo goat who has to rely on the mercy of small children to throw food pellets bought from a bubble-gum machine, and gets accosted when really she just wants to be left alone with her hay. I saw a shirt online that says “You read my t-shirt. That’s enough social interaction for one day.” My thoughts exactly.
For those of you M.C. Hammer fans, you probably recognized the title of this post. If you’re not a fan, or weren’t alive when he wore gold lamé (or, as a matter of fact, don’t know what gold lamé is), you should stop reading immediately because the rest of this paragraph will not make sense. Incidentally, whenever I think of M.C. Hammer, I think of my brother’s awesome hammer pants. Man, he had the best collection of elastic-hemmed neon-colored pants I’ve ever had the privilege to witness. I really wish I had a photo to post of the fashion catastrophe that was the early 1990′s. Unfortunately, my brother would probably never speak to me again. Likewise if I posted the photo of him with Thundercats underwear on his head. He would probably post a photo somewhere of me wearing pants tucked into two pairs of socks, and a side ponytail with puffy bangs. I was SO awesome in the 80′s. I think I actually had a gold lamé scrunchie. It all comes full circle.
I’m going to be alone with my hay.