In Tattered Tights

The life of a people-pleasing introvert can be quite strange at times. Good intentions can have the exact opposite effect. And self-preservation instincts can sometimes cost a friendship.

How do I know, you ask? I used to be one of them.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m still very much an introvert – that hasn’t changed. But somewhere along the way I learned to say 'no' regularly. And, oh boy, have I been using – nay, ABUSING – that word with a smile on my face ever since.

More than a decade ago, when that word wasn't part of my vocabulary, I often found myself in situations I would’ve paid to get out of. In other words – social settings with strangers who talk a lot – or worse – who expected me to talk a lot.

Yuck, I know!

I think I was 19 when I started getting along with a girl I genuinely liked at first. We had similar humor, good conversations, and had shared a few fun days together. The potential for a friendship felt high.

Okay, that might be overly enthusiastic considering how it ended... so maybe not high... but it was definitely... there.

Until one fateful Saturday night.

You see, mentally I’d already taken a glorious everything-shower and planned to curl up in a blanket, in my favourite plaid jammies, reading a book in my softly lit room sipping on a cup of fresh peppermint tea.

Alone.

In silence.

Total bliss!

And then the potential friend decided to come over – in person! – to invite me out. To a club, no less!

Had she called or texted me, I might have been able to wiggle out of the situation, but that was a clear-cut, unexpected face-to-face confrontation...

As an Estonian, I by nature avoid any kind of conflict and confrontation whenever possible – now imagine an introverted Estonian. Discomfort levels shot through the roof! I didn't want to be rude or disappoint her, and even less did I want to explain myself. So 'no' was simply not an option. I’m surprised my hair didn’t start falling out right then and there.

'No' is like a forbidden fruit to people-pleasers. It was right there, looking marvellous, but I still couldn’t reach for it. Instead, I grabbed the bitter, acidic "Yes, I’d love to come," because it was polite, and easier.

I know, my poor nervous system was just trying to get me out of the spotlight (which, by its estimate, was a life-threatening situation, obviously), so it made me say the thing that ended the torture the quickest – unfortunately without considering that the consequences might be even worse.

I do understand that to someone who doesn’t have social anxiety, it all sounds simply insane. Now, ten years later, it sounds insane even to myself. But we listen and we don’t judge, okay?

Long story short, I went to a club that night.

With a lump in my throat, I said goodbye to the idea of a hot shower and soft jammies. Instead, I got dressed in the most uncomfortable outfit imaginable – a tight dress that was way too short and high heels.

Honestly, you could not pay me enough to wear such an outfit today.

Before you ask – it was 2014. It was just something we did. We didn’t question it.

Anyway, outfit on, make-up done, and off to the club we went.

It was exactly as nasty as you’d expect.

A familiar smell hit me as soon as we entered – a mix of sweat, "One Million", cheap beer, Red Bull and vomit. It was obnoxiously loud, as everyone was yelling to make themselves heard over the Martin Garrix’s "Animals", which blasted at least three times in every twenty minutes. And my personal favourite aspect of clubs – the creeps who always "accidentally" graze your boob when moving past you.

It was all bearable when I was actually having fun with my friends, but that night every sound was sharper, every smell hit harder – all my senses were grossly assaulted.

So there I was, sitting next to my almost-friend, tugging on the lower end of my dress so I wouldn’t accidentally flash anyone, contemplating my life choices while sipping on a bad Cuba Libre.

Over all the noise, I was able to make out the words my friend’s friend said: "It’s kind of dead here tonight. Should we go?"

"Oh my! I might get my cozy reading session after all," I thought.

I was half-way home in my mind, almost out of this nasty piece of fabric I was wearing. Seriously, how can a person be sweaty and cold at the same time? Must've been a polyester dress, now that I think about it...

There seemed to be just a few final formalities standing between me and my hot, steam-filled bathroom.

I was ready to SPRINT as soon as I got out of that club.

"So, let’s all go to my place!" said one of the girls enthusiastically.

Before my almost-friend could say anything, I told her that I thought I was heading home.

But she pulled the classic "Nooo, don’t go yet! Come with us! It’ll be fun, I promise!"

My fantasy shattered like a cocktail glass had on the dance floor just a moment earlier.

To this day, I haven’t been able to figure out why she invited me out in the first place. Why would she invite me – and then try to convince me to stay after I’d said I was leaving? I don’t remember us talking much at the club. It didn’t look like she was particularly enjoying my company that night. I was just... there, third wheeling... or rather eighth wheeling their friend group’s outing.

Inner Cristal: "Fun? Yeah, you said that about the club and I’ve hated every second." (Yes, I was bitter and salty by that time.)

What I actually said, with a polite smile, because that's what you do when you're a people-pleaser: "Okay, sure. Let’s go."

I think I actually heard my brain’s warning alarm going off:

MISTAKE DETECTED! MISTAKE DETECTED!

right after I’d said that, but did I listen? No.

Looking back at that situation, it feels like two people were trying to please each other by saying what they thought the other wanted to hear, ending up making themselves miserable. Ironic.

Mascara smudged under my eyes, annoyed, and anxious to the bones, I was stumbling in my high heels on a slippery cobblestone street as we made our way to this girl’s house. Every cell in my body yelled at me to do the opposite, but I kept placing one foot in front of the other, heading somewhere I had no interest in being.

*It’ll be fun, I promise! It’ll be fun, I promise! It’ll be fun, I promise!*

Reality? All eight of us were sitting around a coffee table. I didn’t know anyone besides my, at this point, probably-not-gonna-be-friends friend. Not a single one of them introduced themselves to me, made any effort to talk to me or to include me in the conversation. Not even my wannabe friend.

I was sitting on a little pouffe, my gaze uncomfortably jumping from place to place, trying to find a safe spot to land. I felt like it was my first day having hands – I was suddenly very aware of their existence, having no idea what to do with them. What does one normally do with one's hands when they’re not actively using them?

Simultaneously, I tried to gain control over my RBF, but it was hard while listening to all the conversations happening around me, desperately trying to find a moment to join in.

A grim lump rose in my throat, and burning tears had started to crawl toward the tear ducts. The bitter, disgusting "Yes, I’d love to come," came back like a flashback, filling my mouth with gall.

Every now and then, someone looked at me from the corner of their eye, clearly curious who that random girl was, but not curious enough to ask or say anything.

What felt like at least five hours later, I asked the girl who’d invited me (I'm not even going to call her a potential friend anymore) where the bathroom was. I went in, stared at the wall for a few minutes, let those burning tears out – otherwise they would've scorched my face from the inside – finally felt a bit calmer, and stepped out again.

I stood there in the hall, listening to the muffled sound of laughter and conversations overlapping. My gaze was fixed on the ajar living room door, and I felt an irresistible pull... in the opposite direction.

We all know a little white lie is the best option sometimes, right? I mean, I could’ve gone in there with any made-up excuse and left like a decent person. But that obviously didn't happen.

The bathroom was basically next to the front door, so there was really no need to go back.

Was it impolite? Sure.

A bit rude? Probably.

Ill-mannered? Most definitely.

Did I care? Not one bit.

(That was, until I didn’t have to face anyone and explain my shady behaviour and train of thought that had led me to this point.)

But I was ready to risk it.

I quietly pulled my heels from the pile of shoes and tucked them under my arm. Then, moving like a ninja, I grabbed my coat and held it in the air by the hanger loop to keep it from touching anything so it wouldn’t make any sound. I slipped out of the house, closed the door as quietly as humanly possible, and dashed!

I ran into the cold, wet October night in my tights. The night was bleak, windy and rainy. An adrenaline rush hit me and my pulse was racing as if I'd just escaped a kidnapper.

I darted around the corner before I risked stopping to put on my coat.

I knew roughly where I was in town, but I wasn't quite sure which way was the fastest way home. My phone battery had died earlier at the house so I couldn't call a taxi nor check Google Maps. I just kept walking until I saw a familiar building that helped me understand my exact location. Turned out I'd chosen the wrong way before and walked farther from home the entire time. I made my way onto the parallel street to avoid accidentally passing the house I'd just escaped from and finally took the right course.

I walked home in my tattered tights. My feet were freezing and numb, but I couldn’t bring myself to put on the heels again.

Finally home, I ripped off the dress and tights and threw them both straight into the bathroom bin.

My red frozen feet felt like they were being pierced by a million little needles as I stood under hot running water. And it was the first time all night that I felt I could breathe again.

It was well after midnight, but I still made that cup of tea I had dreamt about earlier.

I sat there, sipping it, replaying the night in my head. The entire night had been like quicksand, and all of my decisions had been the wrong movements, resulting in me sinking deeper and deeper into the sand. My people-pleasing had taken me from trying to avoid a tiny uncomfortable moment to running barefoot through the night... away from my friend.

Once finally safely in bed, I texted the now ex-potential friend that I had suddenly got a bad headache and had gone home.

I don’t know if she ever got the text or not.

We never spoke again.