Baby, You're a (socially anxious) Firework!

I think I have a problem with having to know things. Seriously, I need to know a whole lot of information to function. Maybe not function, maybe just feel comfortable. If I don't, I walk around like I have a rock in my shoe. Par example: Comet Coffee in Ann Arbor. Been dying to go. Coffee tasting? Yes, please. Walked right by it. Didn't know how it worked. I need to have the signs like Subway does "Order Here," "Pick Up Here," or even "Stand here and wave to the person at the counter if you have no idea what to do and need someone to be nice to you and explain the instructions for how to choose your own adventure." But a bunch of people all standing in a row at a counter without any structure, menu or direction gives me anxiety. Where do you stand to wait? Are they all just actually shopping for jewelry? I need you to make sense.

I'm comforted in knowing small details about the structure of a restaurant visit, such as the location of the bathroom, if you have to take the check up to a counter or if the waiter does this for you, where the drafty seats are and which booth has a broken spring in the bench seat because I'd rather sit on the floor than feel like I fell in the toilet for the duration of a meal. And I don't feel as though I can ask to change tables or areas because I feel like it's my fault for saying "Ok" to their question of "Is this table OK?" But really it's like asking you if your food is okay before you even figure out what you want to order. Based on you leading me to the nearest open table using no said logic or algorithm, I actually have no data to comment on your table- picking abilities, other than you sat us in the same restaurant that we showed up to and you did not seat us in a dumpster or shark tank. It would also be encouraging to know the psychographics of eating-others as you just have to guess why the smarmy old one is staring at you: a.) because you're wearing 4 inch wedges and that makes you "for sale," b.) she doesn't know why you're not wearing a red A on your shirt to warn others of your intentions based on your tawdry bare neck, or c.) maybe it's just because that's what her face looks like. It's a genuine miracle how I ever leave the house.

But I do. Some days are better. I recently revisited the small silverback gorilla population that is men's softball on Mondays. Do you know what's hilarious about their habitat? When they play softball (hardball!) right next to 10 year old girl's softball.
Real scenario #1: Juicemonkey hits a blooper to right center and as he struggles to run to first base, a mother in an adjacent field screams, "Run out that base, Manda-honey!"
Real scenario #2: In between innings as men walk back off the field, same mom yells, "You can do it girls!" Some genius planned this to make my summer Mondays better.
(It also works conversely: I glanced at the nearest girls game just as one of the primates yells, "Hit that ball, King Smoke," as a portly-sized pre-teen named Kay Kay curiously tilts her purple helmet towards her beautifully inappropriate.)

Update on Summer Goal Attainment:
So after the excitement wore off that we were having pizza rolls for dinner, I asked the obligatory "How was your day?" because hus-friend's banter about nature and the strange plant he found while trolling the preserve for invasive species is a host more exciting than my new high score dancing to Katy Perry's "Firework" in Just Dance 2. But of course he mirrors my question. How was my day? As a stay-at-home wolf? After I figured out it was Monday due to Bravo's advertisements about their line-up that night, I purchased a New York Times and......"I failed at Monday's crossword, even cheated once." Typing that out loud brought the dirtiness back to light. Sick. Note to self: summer goal stunted; depressingly far from fruition. I mean, how can I even attempt to figure out Tuesday if I freeze at cleverly describing 'cowardly' in 25 spaces across on MONday? I need to re-prioritize my stupid life. Hus-friend's response, "I expect more out of you."

Finally, in a strange turn of events, I have now started eating waffles for breakfast in lieu of cereal.
I ain't mad atcha, Kashi Island Vanilla.