I Am Irrationally Irked at the Awkward Commenter

First off, yes, it's been awhile. Since brevity is the soul of wit, I'll let my explanation be summed up in the words "finals" and "Christmas," and assume you understand. 


Back to business.


The subject of this post may not be known firsthand by the general public. She is not extremely common. But at this point, I'm sure you trust that I know what I'm talking about, and really, I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried. 


So picture this. You're having a wonderful conversation with a few friends. Let's say you're talking about gazelles. 
Betty: "Oh! Gazelles are such fantastic creatures!"
Lou: "How effortlessly they leap away from danger!"
Sally: "Gazelles just bring me so much joy to think about!"
Cathy Commenter: "Oh gazelles! My brother and I had a conversation about gazelles once. But that was about three months before he died at the hand of a crazy man who thought he was actually Scar from The Lion King and that my brother's name was Mufasa. It was tragic, really."


Delightful. 


See what she did there? In under 45 seconds, Cathy Commenter has essentially taken an axe and went into that conversation Crime and Punishment style, and all she needed was a bit of unrelated and slightly morbid information. 


If, by chance, her brother had been killed in a tragic gazelle stampede (AKA, was actually Mufasa) I would allow her the comment. But no. This is not the case. At which point I then deem Cathy the fun sponge of the room. The awkward fun sponge. And not haha awkward. Uncomfortable awkward. 


It takes a lot for me to deem someone uncomfortably awkward. 
Congratulations Cathy. You're more awkward than Rick Perry forgetting his own political plan of action. 


Add some sass to your class,
Jenna

I Am Irrationally Irked by New Numbers

This post does not reflect well on my level of intelligence. 
I will now choose to blame the following events on lack of sleep, and hopefully none of you will think less of me for them. 


Anyway.


I hate it when people I know get new cell numbers. Or if they somehow get my number without my giving it to them, and they text me expecting me to know who they are (way to be a creeper). 
For example, let's take a look at this past Monday night.


I had just gotten out of Chi Alpha, and I was having a delightful conversation with Natasha when I got a text from a number that wasn't listed in my contacts. 


The text:
Hey sis, this is my new cell #


I was confused.
I have no sister. 
My friends generally do not use that as a term of endearment. 


Sparknotes: I had no idea who this was.
I saw that the area code was 909, so I knew it was someone back in Cali. 
But who?


Natasha and I decided I should be classy about this. So I replied with:
Who you be yo?


It was not long before I received a reply.


O that's right u have 2 brothers I forgot. Lol


I wish I could say that the realization of the identity of my mystery texter immediately came to me after this message.
But I can't.
It still took me a minute. And by a minute, I really mean three. Of me staring at my phone. Thinking.
Because, as I stated, I have no sister. 
But I do have a brother.


Yep.


In my defense, my brother hasn't had a cell in about five years, so saying he had a "new number" was a bit of an understatement.
But this is why I wish my cell had caller ID. And texter ID. It would make me feel so much more intelligent. And make my family members feel so much more loved.


Add some sass to your class,
Jenna

I Am Irrationally Irked by Women Who Live in Walls

The title of this post sounds ridiculous. 
It is.


Wednesdays are generally my favorite days when working at the library because most of my shift is shared with a friend of mine. Yesterday, as usual, we ran out of things to do in the office. So our supervisor sent us to pull books in the stacks.


I love doing this.


There's no sarcasm here. I really do enjoy it. 
There weren't that many we needed to pull, so we decided to go together. One of the first books we came across contained an article that a certain faculty member desired. The name of this article was, "How to Read Like a Man."


This is where our problems began.


Because really, that's hilarious. At least she and I thought so. But it wasn't enough to chuckle at the title, no sir. We decided that we needed to try this for ourselves. 
We spent the next few minutes talking in "man voices." Yeah, we're that awesome. 


You're waiting for problems. Here they come.


We're standing in front of the elevator, when we hear voices. Not from the elevator. Not from the stacks. From behind us. From inside and/or beyond the vent in the wall we were standing against. We clearly heard women's voices, so, clearly, the best decision before me was to say, "Helllloooooo? Is anyone in there?" Into the vent. In a man voice. 


Cue the elevator doors opening. 


Naturally, said elevator was not empty. 


The two men standing inside of it heard everything I did and saw me leaning over to the vent. 


They didn't say anything. Or laugh. Or look weirded out.
They just judged.


My friend and I entered the elevator with the strange, unamused men, and cough-laughed until we reached our desired floor. 


Dear women who live in the walls of Aldy, just stop. You're getting me into situations that require judgment far more often than normal. 


Add some sass to your class,
Jenna

I Am Irrationally Irked by Inaccurate Blog Responses

There is an interesting dilemma before me. 


For those of you who stalk me on the facebook (It's okay. You can admit it. There's no shame here.), you may have noticed that a certain friend of mine named Natasha wrote a response to one of my previous posts in her blog. 


This is both 
1. Flattering 
2. Irksome (duh.)


First of all, I love this girl. I love her blog. She's my favorite kind of witty. If you have never read about her shenanigans before,  shame on you. 


Now, go read her post below. It will make my reaction make sense. Or, if you prefer the nonsense version of my writing, feel free to continue without reading her blog. Or go speak to me in real life. Absurdity at its finest right there. 


Anyway.


Read:
http://ohmytash.blogspot.com/2011/11/add-some-sass-to-your-26-hour-day.html


For the sake of convenience, I have copied her list of things I would "actually" do. (She uses more festive colors than I do. I don't want to hear any complaining.)

What Jenna would really do in a 26 hour day:

1. Procrastinate doing hw for 2 extra hours 
2. Learn how to play the shofar (for the sole purpose of blowing into it obnoxiously in the halls of Old Cabell as she runs to Hebrew class in the morning)
3. Get into situations too awkward to blog about 
4. Procrastinate doing laundry and instead make a fort out of her socks
5. I'll give her #5, it's probably true
6. Procrastinate reading that other thing
7. Forget that she was there to go bowling, and start a flash mob in front of the shoe check-out counter.
8. Go on a date... with George Clooney (I figured I should be at least a little bit nice.)
9. Go on a hike, and plant a flag on the top of the mountain that says "IT'S JUST WRONG, STUPID AND AWKWARD NOT TO USE THE OXFORD COMMA"
10. By "jam with musical friends," she really means pulling a Kanye West at a Justin Bieber concert. "Imma let you finish, JB, but Natasha Oladokun is the best blogger of all time!" :D (ok... maybe that one was a stretch. But I couldn't resist. :D) 
11. She already has an intense arsenal of puns at her disposal, so I have no idea what she's talking about there. 


The response to the response:
1. Duh. My list was of things I could do in a 26 hour day. Not what I would actually do. (Proven by the existence of my original #8.)
2. All I can say is that she knows me well enough to realize that I would still always be running late to Hebrew, even with two extra hours in my day.
3. Have you read my blog? I'm pretty sure there's no shame here. 
4. I think she means LEARN to make a fort out of socks. Because that would really be impressive. Especially considering how few socks I have. 
5. Good concession. (Ha. Concession. Like concessions. As in food. Fitting.)
6. I'll give her that one.
7. Clearly, I would do both. 
8. I don't need two extra hours to go on dates with George (yes, first name basis.) We go on biweekly dates already actually. 
9. THIS IS WHERE MY CAREFUL REPUDIATION OF HER LIST ENDS. 
Natasha.
"IT'S JUST WRONG, STUPID AND AWKWARD NOT TO USE THE OXFORD COMMA."


THERE IS NO OXFORD COMMA IN THAT STATEMENT. SUCH PHRASING WOULD NEVER, EVER BE ON A FLAG I CREATED BECAUSE I WILL ALWAYS LOVE AND SUPPORT SAID MARK OF PUNCTUATION.


To quote someone sassy and gay, 
what, 
what, (<Oh look at that. It's the Oxford Comma.)
WHAT 
were you thinking?


Who needs a reality check now?


I don't even know if this is classy,
Jenna


Disclaimer: Natasha is one of my favorite people. And her blog is fabulous. Seriously. Check her out: http://ohmytash.blogspot.com/

I Am Irrationally Irked by Uncomfortable Eye Contact

Awkward things follow me the way H follows G. 

After my last class this afternoon, I was enjoying my walk home. It was a lovely, brisk day, and I was trying to fully appreciate it. Naturally, my eyes wandered over my surroundings. But then they stopped wandering. Because, alas, they had alighted upon the guy I now have a date with Friday night. It happened like this:

Seriously, minus the fact that this is a commercial, I am not Indian, and neither of us collapsed in exhaustion, this is pretty darn accurate.

Okay.

Not really.

What happened was this:

I was walking. I happened to make eye contact with these two men who had just come from Baskin Robbins. I know this, because they were both eating ice cream. Rarely have I regretted eye contact more than I did at that moment. 

Ever seen My Big Fat Greek Wedding? Remember this gem of a scene when her dad is trying to hook her up?

(Don't knock on the video quality. It was the best I could find.)

Yeah. Really. This describes my life in so many ways. But for the sake of this post, let's just relive this moment for a hot second:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n5PwpVgPyYQ

That's what happened with the guys from Baskin Robbins. Both of them. At the same time.

No.

Just no. 

Add some sass to your class,

Jenna

I Am Irrationally Irked at locations that are not my bed

In the past 48 hours, I have slept very little. 
Very.
Very.
Little.


Most of the sleep I have gotten has been in the form of 5-15 minute power naps wherever I happen to be located. 


Places I have napped in the past two days:
My couch
My friend's couch
A booth in Panera
A window sill in Cabell
A staircase in Clark
Any class I am currently enrolled in
The floor of the MAC
An elevator (Don't you dare judge me.)


You get the picture. Allow me to point something out to you though.
None of these locations is a bed. 
It doesn't sound like that big of a deal. I'm overreacting, right?


False.


You try living like that for a few days. Don't come crying to me when you feel like you have the back of the hunchback of Notre Dame when he is eighty-eight and about to die. Actually, that's a terrible simile. BECAUSE AT LEAST HE'S ON A BED. The fact that it is his death bed is kind of irrelevant to this post. 
Don't call me morbid. I'm just telling it how it is.


Add some sass to your class,
Jenna

I Am Irrationally Irked at 24 Hour Days

Ever feel like there just aren't enough hours in the day?
That's kind of my life. 
All the time.


I start thinking about it, and it is amazing how many of my problems could be solved if each day had even two more hours.  


Things I could do in a 26 hour day:
1. Finish hw (for once)
2. Learn a new musical instrument (guitar, harp, banjo, pretty much anything but a shofar)
3. Write more blog posts
4. Do laundry on a regular basis
5. Eat a meal that in no way involves food from Panera
6. Read something not assigned by a professor
7. Go bowling
8. Go on a date (this could, in theory, also be #7) (just a suggestion)
9. Start hiking again
10. Jam with musical friends. So many musical friends.
11. Create an internal arsenal of  puns that are ready for any occasion.


The possibilities are about as endless as the stack of reading that's currently on my desk.


Okay. 
Fine.
I'll be real.
All of that sounds splendid, but realistically, there's one thing I'd really love to have an extra two hours for.




Napping.




Add some sass to your I'msoexhaustedandsickofgoingto class, 
Jenna

I Am Irrationally Irked at People Who Judge Me Incorrectly

So last night, I slept over at a friend's apartment. No big deal.
I hadn't originally planned on sleeping there, so when I went to her place I was just in yoga pants and a t shirt. My usual Friday night attire right there.


Anyway. I had breakfast plans early this morning, and I needed to stop back by my house before I went there, so I had to leave my friend's apartment rather early this morning. 


I borrowed a sweatshirt from her, because, alas, it was freezing this morning. So there I was, walking down Rugby at 8:25 in the morning, wearing yoga pants, a bright red Dollywood Christmas sweater, and looking like a mess.


I passed a few people on my way home.


Persons #1 and #2:
Thing One and Thing Two are both female and both clearly wearing their ensembles from the previous evening. Contrary to popular belief, I do not read minds; however, if I had to guess their thoughts judging from the way they looked at me as we passed each other, I think it would sound a bit like this:


"How did she get laid last night wearing that?"


Person #3:
A woman walking her two dogs. 
As a general rule, I am friendly towards other pedestrians. So, in my usual manner, I smile as we pass each other. Usually things turn out better. 
Instead of returning my smile, she sent me a look of extreme judgment. Kind of like this:

Seriously guys, I didn't have sex last night.
That was not the walk of shame.
I promise. 


Add some sass to your class,
Jenna

I Am Irrationally Irked at Inappropriate Attire

Women at UVa, this one's for you.


As I mentioned yesterday, the weather has been rather damp. Logically, the presence of precipitation leads to a large-scale change in wardrobe in the population of UVa. 


I just don't understand why that change is the way it is. 


It's cold and wet, so you would think about rain jackets. Check. 
You would think umbrellas. Check
You're constantly passing through puddles or wading through small streams, so you think rain boots. Check.


But something is missing here. 


That something is a pair of pants.


Because leggings, my dear friends, are not pants. 
Yet for some reason, girls seem to be under the impression that some moisture in the air can transform one item of clothing into another. 
If, whenever it started raining, I took to wearing a large, stretchy mitten as a shirt, you would judge me. 
Same principle. 


It's okay to wear jeans with rain boots, I promise. We don't live in the seventies. Your jeans are not excessively flared. They will fit inside the boot. 


You have no excuse. 


Add some sass to your class,
Jenna

I Am Irrationally Irked at My Grace and Dignity

If you have met me, I doubt you will ever meet someone more clumsy. Congratulations, if you enjoy watching others trip or be awkward, look no further. I'm pretty much the best you'll find. No big deal. 


So here was the situation this morning:
It's raining. A lot. I may have forded a few streams on my way to class, and I can now better relate to the average salmon. 
Also, it's probably good to note that my shoes do not have a lot of traction.


So there I was, rushing to Hebrew at 8:57, trying desperately to be on time, knowing that three minutes would probably not allow me to make that happen. But I'm a desperate optimist, what can I say. 
I was rushing down the hall of Cabell, when SHAZAM. I slip. Into the guy walking right in front of me. He catches me. This is convenient. I am embarrassed. Especially since I was in the middle of lip syncing to Britney.


Guy: "Well hello there."
Me: "Well hello. Let's please pretend that didn't just happen." 
Guy: "Um, absolutely not."
Me: "Rude."


This is where I sassily walk away. 
Or attempt to, anyway.
I took one step, and almost face planted. Again. 


Guy: "Your life is not real."
Me: "I tell myself that more often than you would think."


Add some sass to your class,
Jenna

I am Irrationally Irked at Friends Who are Further Along On Assignments than I am

Sometimes, I get behind on work I need to do.


Okay. Fine. I'm always behind on work I need to do.


That's entirely my fault, and I'm not going to complain about it. 


But there's something else that irks me. Well, someone. Actually, it could be more than one someone. 


Possibilities: 
Person One: Over-Eager Oliver
This is the kid that writes papers a week before they're due. 
No. Just no. 


Person Two: Don't Care Dilbert
"Well, screw this. I don't care. I'm just bs-ing my way through this."
Yet somehow his story about cherry freeze pops is still more interesting than what you spent all night writing, praying to the gods of late night papers that what you are writing will be so beautiful it changes your professor's life. Forever. 


Person Three: Friendly Fred
This is the person you are actually friends with, who is also absurdly behind on the assignment, yet somehow, he manages to write much faster than you do. 
Friendly Fred is the worst, because you can't hate him. All you can do is write blog posts about him at 12:05 in the morning the day the assignment is due. 


Not that any of this is based on my experiences recently. 


Add some sass to your procrastinating class,
Jenna


Disclaimer: This is in no way directed at a specific person. Especially anyone whose name rhymes with Shpleric Shplamar. 

I Am Irrationally Irked At Dirty Laundry

Here's how things generally go with the laundry in my life:
I do laundry. I wear clothes. Life gets crazy. Time passes. I run out of clothes to wear. I don't have time to do laundry again yet.
One of two things then happens. I either look like this:

Or like this:

Those might be slight exaggerations. Slight being the operative word there. 

Anyway.

Today, I reached that point. I decided I would rather avoid the oversized Christmas sweater vibe (it becomes more common the closer I get to December), and I put on something a little bit nicer than what I usually wear. A little bit. I really don't look that fantastic today.

But apparently that is much more fantastic than usual. 

I've gotten a lot of compliments. That's swell. I'm not complaining.

Then I ran into a good friend of mine on the way to class today. Observe:

"Jenna!"

"Friend!"

"Wow. You look really nice today."

"Thanks. Much appreciated."

"You don't have a date tonight do you? Wait. Of course you don't. You're just behind on laundry aren't you?"

My life is far too predictable. 

Add some sass to your class,

Jenna

I Am Irrationally Irked At Customers Who Throw Off My Groove

So, I have a second job working nights at Panera. A lot of nights. Most nights. 

I work a lot.

Anyway.

Many a time during the night shift, we have lulls without any customers. I love these lulls. I am exceptionally irked when they end. There are several reasons for this. 

The main reason is this:

Customers throw off my groove. 

I am a cashier. This sounds absurd. 

But you know what?

I'm not absurd. 

I'm just a very musical person. 

Ringing people up doesn't (usually) involve music.

(This is a false statement when I am ringing you up.)

(Which is awkward.)

(For you.)

But part of my job is to make you feel comfortable. ("Panera, your everyday oasis." Yeah, that's a real slogan.)

So I have to stop.

Which means,

Congratulations customer, you just threw off my groove.

It's kind of like this:

If it wasn't clear, the customer is the old man in this situation. 


You know, sometimes I just want to belt Gaga or Adele without being judged. Is that really so much to ask?


Okay, yeah. 
Apparently.


Add some sass to your class,
Jenna

I Am Irrationally Irked at Being Unable to Control My Mutant Abilities

I am currently back in Virginia, which is swell. I have yet to spend an entire summer on this side of the country, but I have quite vivid memories about it being WICKED hot when I was here last August. Naturally, I thought the weather would be similar when I arrived a couple weeks ago. 


False. 


Instead, there have been a few storms. 
Storm #1: Sunday evening.
This is my personal favorite. 
Natasha and I decided that we would grab dinner and hang out after we got back from the XA leadership retreat. We were excited. After some walking and encounters with some overly studious students and a creepy but well meaning man at Starbucks, we found ourselves enjoying a lovely bench across from the Corner. We noticed a cool breeze. We remarked on the possibility of rain later that night. We had a brief conversation on how much we both love rain. I say it was brief, because we were interrupted by the rain itself. 
Within about four minutes, both of us were entirely drenched. I don't think I could have been wetter if I was swimming in a lake. 
After we had been pelted with hail at a very high velocity, we called my roommate to come pick us up. I hung up the phone, and the rain stopped. Of course. Also, I feel like I should mention that it took her a little while to get to us, seeing as there were now very large trees blocking almost every road to get to us.


Storms #2-5: Any day I decide to walk somewhere.
No lie. I would say to my roommate, "Hey roommate, I'm going to go visit a friend." Cue rain. I would be on a Wal-Mart run on a fine summer day. While in checkout, I heard thunder. I walk to the exit to find a torrential downpour. Literally completely soaked during the twenty second walk to the car. Not cool atmospheric turbulence, not cool. 


All of these recent occurrences have led myself and others to come to the conclusion that I am, in fact, Halle Barry. With white hair. And mutant abilities. Mutant abilities that make it really difficult for me to walk outside without feeling like it would probably be in my best interest to bring an umbrella, despite the fact that it's 95 degrees out. But then, as is consistent with my life, it never does rain when I bring the umbrella. 


Add some sass to your (still slightly damp) class,
Jenna

I Am Irrationally Irked at Slow DVD Screensavers

I'm hoping that most of you watch The Office. If not, watch this video. It will be enjoyable, I promise.

(By the way, this clip was quite difficult to locate. Please be impressed.)

Now, the whole premise of this scene is not weird to me. I've been doing this for...awhile. I mean, it's not like a friend and I have spent over an hour watching the DVD screensaver waiting for this to happen. That would just be absurd. But if that did happen, I can say that we would have screamed in excitement. Hypothetically speaking, of course.

Here's the problem: a new DVD player. 

The bouncing DVD rectangle is now so slow. It made me feel ridiculous watching it. I can't imagine what possessed Toshiba to make a DVD player that would do such a thing. 

I mean, I realize that the primary purpose of this machine is to play movies for me, which it does quite well, but this is important too! Having this DVD player is like dating a guy who is fantastic in every way, except for the fact that he doesn't appreciate puns. It's kind of a deal breaker.

Add some sass to your class,

Jenna

I Am Irrationally Irked at Carmageddon

For those of you who don't live in Southern California, Carmageddon is a term used in reference to the closure of a section of the 405 for this weekend.

Now, the closure is not what irks me. Honestly, I am just so sick of it being the only topic of conversation among the strangers on whom I eavesdrop.

It's kind of like Valentine's Day.

Valentine's Day itself is a kind of useless and weird holiday, just like Carmageddon is itself annoying. But the people who insist on calling it Single Awareness Day and and make a big fuss about it are by far more ridiculous than the holiday itself. The same principle applies here.

People don't have reason to be upset. I mean really. Jet Blue was giving $4.00 plane rides to people who needed to get from point A to point B.

Seriously.

Add some sass to your class,

Jenna

I Am Irrationally Irked at People Who Don't Believe Me

I love honesty. Absolute honesty.

It's one of my favorite qualities to find in people I know. If there were some way that everyone could just wear a shirt that said how they really feel, life would be a whole lot simpler and infinitely more interesting.

But alas, it seems I'll have to file that one away under "Excellent Ideas That Will Never Actually Happen" along with hiring someone to walk behind me with a stereo blasting the soundtrack to my life, convincing everyone I know to speak in an accent for a day, and playing the harmonica in a blue grass band.

ANYWAY.

Since I'm so big on honesty, I hate it when people don't believe me, especially over something that would be foolish to lie about. My favorite example occurs when something is in my eye or my contact is malfunctioning. Observe:

Me: [fiddles with eye]

Annoying Albert: "JENNA! Are you okay?"

Me: "I'm fine. My contact is just all kinds of wonky today. I think something's in my eye."

Annoying Albert: "Are you sure everything's alright?"

Me: "Other than the small tree nesting near my cornea, yes. Everything's swell."

Annoying Albert: "You know, it's okay if something is going on. I know you don't cry that often, but it's okay to show emotion."

Me: "Seriously. It's my contact."

Annoying Albert: "Jenna. You're crying. Just admit it."

Me: "Uh, really. No. I mean, look at me. Only my left eye is red. When you cry, does it usually just happen in one eye?"

Annoying Albert: "No, but everyone looks different when they cry."

Me: "I am legitimately questioning your intelligence."

Annoying Albert: "There's no need to get defensive."

There's really no way I can win.

Add some sass to your class,

Jenna

I Am Irrationally Irked at People I Can't Understand Via The Phone

At various places of employment, I have had to answer phones. This is fine. 

But sometimes when I answer a phone, I can't understand the person on the other line. I can't determine one particular factor that causes it. It's not gender, ethnicity, age, or even if English is their second language (I always did quite well in the listening portion of my French classes, thank you very much). 

Whatever it is, I wouldn't mind so much if it didn't interfere with me trying to do my job. For example, the following could happen:

Me: "Harold's House of Catering, how may I help you?"

Caller:"YES humberdfanddfokealbuffmndadj SPEAK TO HAROLD."

Me: "Uh, I'm sorry, Harold is out right now, can I take a message?"

Caller: "YES humberdfnownfsnalmmdfekjfaonsdfnsdnfwinfdalnknewnfsdnf VERY IMPORTANT."

Me: "And can I get a name and number for him to call you back?"

Caller: "Yes, my name is SHVETASHMROSHERME. The number is (909) 857-5309."

Take note. This is where I thought I could be clever. I have no idea what she just said her name was. But I think I've found a way around that.

Me: "Sorry, would you mind spelling your name for me?"

And this is where I fail.

SHVETASHMROSHERME (Caller): "S-A-M   S-M-I-T-H"

Me: "Right. Shoot."

Add some sass to your class,

Jenna

I Am Irrationally Irked at Lionel Richie's "Hello"

Step one: Watch this. Yes, the whole thing.

 

If you just stopped it half way through despite my preface, go back and finish it. The ending is kind of important for my rant.

Ready now? 

Okay.

What, what, WHAT the heck. This is not okay on many levels.

To name a few:

1. Lionel is a CREEPER in this video. He might as well get his knees flexin' and his arms t-rexin'. 

2. Dating students is illegal.

3. "Tell me how to win your heart/For I haven't got a clue/But let me start by saying I love you." Lionel, I do believe you mixed up the order of things. The title of your song is "Hello." You should really try saying that, before telling the girl you love her. It would also be nice to do that before you start stalking her and calling her house. Just sayin'.

4. This is perhaps my most important point.

She.

Is.

Blind.

She will not be sculpting a massive clay version of your face.

No.

Add some sass to your class,

Jenna

I Am Irrationally Irked at Being the Nth Wheel

A general rule of social situations: odd numbers are usually unfortunate for someone.

You've heard of being the third wheel. You've probably been that final component of a social tricycle a few times in your life. It usually happens on accident. Your other friend was going to come but was late/cancelled last minute/was hit by a bus/ etc. Because when you are aware of only two other people going somewhere, and those two people are dating or sort of dating, you do not want to go with them. And that's okay, because inevitably, they will do something to make you feel uncomfortable. They'll start canoodling, they'll start talking about how great it will be when you find that "special someone," or they'll start fighting. It's a natural instinct to not want to be there. It's like not wanting to be near animals during their mating season, not wanting to hear infomercials for products that are supposed to improve your life, and not wanting to be Neville Chamberlain when Hitler invades the Sudetenland.

But sometimes even when you plan ahead, you're the odd one out.

Because here's the thing, even if it's a larger group of people, if it's still an odd number, there's still the potential for everyone to couple off. Everyone except for the Nth wheel, N being the total number in your party. I could talk about a lot of examples right now, but instead, I'm just going to say that being the Nth wheel in a dancing/clubbing/grooving setting probably has the most potential for disaster. Because once that creepy older man named Diego standing in the corner figures out that you're the Nth wheel, watch out. Suddenly creepy corner Diego wants to salsa dance with you. Then it takes several very long minutes before your friends realize you are dancing with a creepy stranger and need assistance. Not that I've been in that situation before.

Add some sass to your class,

Jenna

Disclaimer: This rant does not apply to all couples. If I have not expressly told you with my words or very obvious facial expressions that I don't want to be around the two of you together, then I'm not talking about you here. So nobody get offended on me. Thanks.