I am a Hermit.

Most people think of me as outgoing. I have decided, however, that I am a hermit.

I went to a party in San Diego on Saturday and found myself dealing with some pretty intense social anxiety before I actually arrived. I’m not sure why this was. Normally I don’t give a crap about whom I do or do not meet; but for some reason, I felt weird about the whole event. Even on Friday, I felt anxious about going to this shin-dig. I think it was just generalized anxiety. It wasn’t really specific to the event.

The event was a hula-Christmas wacky-tacky party. I didn’t really get it. I just wore my tackiest Christmas apparel and went with it.

Maybe I should preface this story with telling you that I am the most ridiculously prepared person you’ll ever meet. For instance, I carry an extra band-aid in my purse, tissues, Purell…until a few months ago, I carried an extra pair of panties in my purse. Then one day, my ex-friend said,

“Uh, are those panties in your purse?”

Rachel: “Yeah.”

Ex-friend: “That makes you seem like a big hoe.”

I still have no idea why having back-up panties would make me appear to be a hoe. I mean, what if I got in a car accident and wound up in the hospital? There’s no way I’m wearing some manky weird hospital panties. Their panties probably get washed with the HIV sheets and the plasma pillowcases and those hospital gowns that old people have crapped in. I will wear my OWN sanitary panties, thank you. Or what if I get really tired and decide to stay at my friend’s house over night? Then the next morning, when I shower, I have nice clean undergarments to put on. Alas. I no longer carry extra panties because I do not want to be thought of as a hoe.

Anyway, so, I go to this party in San Diego.

There is something else you should know about me. I have not slept well since I was about 12. I have spoken of this on countless occasions before, so ignore me when I beat this dead horse into oblivion. I toss and turn and have weird dreams and wake up with my back all cork-screwed and feeling like hell EVERY DAY. I feel bad for my co-sleeper, or whomever you may have. I am the worst co-pilot sleeper in the world. With this being said, I do every possible thing that I can to maintain the tiniest level of crappy sleep that I can grasp.

So, integrating my preparedness and my crappy sleeplessness, I bring ear plugs everywhere I go, and I often pop Melatonin- and on this particular Saturday, I decided to tote my air mattress with me to this party to minimize the shittiness of my REM cycle.

At about midnight, I was bored making meaningless chit-chat with people that I did not know. I get really sick of telling the same dang story.

People saying, “MY! What an accent! Are you from Texas?” and me feeling really bored and dull and rough around the edges. When they ask me these stupid things, I watch their mouths move and hear this dull moaning in my ears and I mentally fill in the gaps with, “I’m a big effing ignorant retard, and I grew up in southern California on a trust fund, and I have nothing in common with you and think you’re stupid because you have a southern accent, but the truth is, I went to community college and failed all of my gen eds, but still got into USC because my daddy is a big donor.” And all the time I am smiling and nodding politely, wondering if perhaps the person’s head will blow up and little particles of emptiness and stupidity will float through the air and vanish into the ozone layer like tiny little finches.

Never happens. Their heads never blow up.

Anyway. I got really bored. Really, really bored. After an insane week filled with written comps and oral comps and emotions up and down and feeling insecure and insane and sick and hungry and exhausted and wondering if he likes me as much as I like him and wondering if I’m supposed to buy my coworkers Christmas presents and if I’ll be stuck in this job for the rest of my life and maybe I should move to Texas since apparently I’m the stereotype for the whole effin state and I don’t want to date anymore unless there’s a point to it and I want to get married and have kids one day and own a home and that sure as hell isn’t going to happen in L.A. unless I marry a 78 year old venture capitalist and having bottomless mimosas on a Friday afternoon and feeling like I have absolutely snapped and there will be no salvaging of the person I once was, I. was. BORED.

So. I exited stage left into some girl’s room, blew up my little air mattress, popped in my ear plugs, and decided to sleep.

Bad plan.

When you go to sleep at a party when everyone is smashed and dressed like King Kamehameha with Christmas ornaments for earnings, you are absolutely targeted for having “Balls” written on your forehead in Sharpie ink.

Throughout the course of the evening, I woke up on several occasions with creepers looming over my bed, giggling and tickling my feet or poking me, like poking a dead jellyfish with a stick.

I felt like a caged up zoo animal. I felt like an insane, hermit, zoo animal who was about to jump out of that air mattress and start stabbing everyone, Wolfenstein style, like when he runs out of guns and has that little wimpy knife but can get pretty crazy with it. Stab stab.

This is why I do not like going to parties where I know that:

A) I don’t have a get away car
B) I will have to sleep on someone’s floor
C) I do not know my way home.

Now, setting all melodramatics aside, I actually had a fun time. I spent some quality time with the girlfriend I rode with, and that was nice. But being ridiculed for being a prepared hermit control freak is no fun for anyone.

The whole point of this blog is that I have decided that I am officially a hermit.

Also, today was one more day of hell on earth at my office where I got completely thrown into counseling someone for whom I was not prepared. Awesome. I need a new career path. I should have gone to business school. Then I could be my own dang venture capitalist and not have to marry one.

I joke about having to marry a rich man a lot. People shouldn’t take that so seriously. People sometimes get all heated and red in the face and sigh and say, “You’re such a gold digger!” But I’ve never dated a guy with money, nor is that something that even comes up in my preliminary man-screening survey. Money is real fickle. You can’t count on it.

Two memories occurred to me recently, as I have finished my master’s degree.

I have done a lot of things on my own.

There were two times in my life where I could have gotten married. I was young and still thought the best of most people. With contestant number two, we talked about moving to So Cal together if we ever did the whole future thing together. He was an insane person, and I found that out right around the time I found the ring in his sock drawer, and thank God I pulled the quick release strap and got out of that whole mess. Anyway. I moved to So Cal alone. I did it myself. I didn’t need that idiot to do it. I did it myself.

With contestant number one, he always said he’d take me to Italy if we did the future thing [look at my avoidance issues. I can’t even type the “m” word now.]. I bought a ticket to Italy over Thanksgiving. Merry Christmas, Rachel. Happy graduation, Rachel. I did it myself. I’m doing it myself.

I have a lot of things to figure out. I’ve checked all of this b.s. off of my life accomplishments list, and now I’m completely undirected and wondering what the H comes next. But I do know one thing.

I am a hermit, and I am proud.

Goodnight, San Diego.