The first time, when I visited with one friend, I complained about the lighting and squinted theatrically to see the menu. The free-standing heaters left me in my winter coat, and it was very quiet on a Thursday night, which seemed a bit odd, for a spot with a fully-stocked bar in the "cool" (but actually, yes, cool) part of town. The food was great, but that's the only reason I ever made a gesture to come back.

Two and a half years later, we roll up with a group of five and are given a twenty-minute wait. I walk in hugging waiters and regulars on the way to our seats--seats which are crowded in by all the patrons at the bar--then order a vodka cranberry and a hookah offer that isn't on the menu, and we all smoke, even the people who "don't smoke." Mid-conversation, I look up and see one of my favorite new acquaintances, and, on his way over, he tells me to get up. Thinking it's time for a hug, I comply, but instead I'm pulled onto the dance floor, which is fast and terrifying and perfect. The DJ knows what he's doing, and it doesn't feel cold, despite the nippy temperatures.

This is a very important restaurant, to me, because it practically grew with me. It was founded when I started college, but neither of us really took off until the summer after my sophomore year, and then everything changed. They rearranged furniture and installed hanging heaters into the ceiling over the now larger tables in the front, then moved the smaller tables into the back garden and used the free-standing lamps there. They hired a DJ for Saturday nights and started using Pandora stations to get the right feeling during the day. They trained their waitstaff to enjoy themselves--and they do. The only reason I know so many servers and know the little nuances of the restaurant is because they'll come hang out with the more welcoming patrons and smoke some of their hookah.

Meanwhile, I was coming out of my shell. The introvert in me turned into the manageable anxieties of an extrovert, and I learned that drinking can be a social interaction rather than a pathway to alcoholism (which is how my parents always sold it). I started approaching strangers, and dating, and actually feeling like someone capable of handling the typical social aspect of living. It isn't for everyone, but I'm also dead tired of the superiority complex that some people "subtly" push because they're introverts. If it's a contest, for you, then you probably think something is fundamentally wrong with the way you're living.

I love the way I'm growing. I love the fact that I'm both capable of destroying all my classes and approaching lost-looking tourists to see if they need anything. I love the fact that I can eat lunch alone with a good book, but also hold interesting conversation with anyone who might ask me what I'm reading. That, to me, is fulfillment.

At the end of the night, though, I still panic and fast-walk away from the restaurant, after leaving my number for a new server. Some things don't change.

(It paid off, though, because now we're texting.)

I feel like people who claim introverts are superior to extroverts might just be bitter that they have trouble interacting with society at times.
» randomjunk on 2013-11-25 12:36:09

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