Manliness is not all swagger and mountain climbing.

Another year at Brevard’s White Squirrel Festival (I wrote about last year’s adventure here). Believe it or not, people actually come from out of town to attend this thing. The most commonly overheard question is, “Are they albino?” Not something you generally hear a lot. (The answer, as any local will tell you (with a sigh), is “No, they aren’t albino.”)

This year, I had my niece and nephew in tow. They seem to have taken a liking to me, which is nice (most of the time…except for when I need a moment’s peace (or to pee)). A big highlight of any trip to Brevard is O.P. Taylor’s (yes, a Andy Griffith/Mayberry reference) toy store. There was an electric racecar track set up, which my nephew of course ran over to. There was another kid already playing, and when my nephew turned to him first thing and said, “Hey!” I thought, oh good, he’s being friendly with his peers! Turns out, not so much. What followed “Hey!” was: “Can you give Mary a turn?” As if the kid should bow down to the greatness that is “Aunt Mary.” (Needless to say, he gave my nephew a weird look and continued racing.)

Brevard is a weird town. There are (I guess because of the outdoor recreation available) a bunch of crunchy granola types. So you walk around the festival, and there’s the smell of barbeque and funnel cake…but also patchouli. Yoga instructors were walking the streets, trying to sell books. One of them came up to me, of course wearing a long, billowy skirt and Birkenstocks. After I explained that I “wasn’t a yoga person,” she said something along the lines of, “OK, man, cool! Peace.”

At the same time, there are a TON of retirees from all over in Brevard. My mom and I were walking the street, looking for my brother, sister-in-law, niece, and nephew. Mom said, “I just keep waiting for someone to call out, ‘Grandma!’”  Yeah, if a kid yelled for Grandma in Brevard, most of the town’s female inhabitants would turn around expectedly.

The kids really enjoyed watching the boxcar racing (a car modeled after the Titanic was a bit hit), but my favorite moment of the festival? The Transylvania County Tea Party booth. Because, in the 90-degree weather, they had a guy dressed up in a wool Revolutionary War-era uniform.  A public show of dumb-assery…sounds about right to me.

You don't get to touch me, ever!

My friends and I recently took another friend—a new foster parent—out for dinner. I went to pick her up, and so was briefly introduced to the kids. The 5-year old was chatty from the beginning; the 2- year old was a little more apprehensive. She was strapped into a high chair and had nowhere to hide from “the stranger,” so after a few frantic seconds, she ingeniously decided to hide her head inside her own shirt.

Later at the restaurant, I relayed this story to the rest of the group. Now, I have known all of these people for about 20 years…to say they’re familiar with me and my idiosyncrasies would be an understatement. Two of them had similar responses to the “hiding in her own shirt” story: “Well, you understand that feeling!”

Now, to be clear, I was not insulted by these statements in any way…I’ve always been the quiet one, and these friends have years and years of evidence to that fact. But while I’ll never be a social butterfly, it struck me that I don’t really equate myself with the “scared of people” persona anymore. Is it age? Wisdom? (Oh, who am I kidding…most likely, it’s the medication).

Anyway, fast forward a couple of weeks. I’m out with friends at a bar. Jeremy’s a few seats down from me, so it’s not clear that I’m with anybody. A man comes over and starts talking to my friend and me. He has an accent (although I’m not convinced that it was real), so I ask where he’s from. He answers with a (possibly made-up) country I’d not heard of…and at this point, I’m out of polite chitchat. I’m even several beers in at this point, and yet I got nothing. And it’s not like I need to chat this guy up—my husband is three seats away, for God’s sake! So what do I do?

I run away to the bathroom.

I mean, what is up with that? The guy came up to me; I had no reason to try and impress him; and yet I freaked out and ran for the ladies room. In my defense, I had no other choice—I was wearing a V-neck.

There’s really nowhere to hide in a V-neck.