I'm an extreme introvert, which explains some of the social anxiety. I've made the requisite adaptations for functioning in the world: first one in, first one out at parties (I circulate best in small groups), quick exits from gatherings, perpetual temptation toward the Irish goodbye rather than the honest farewell. In middle age I've learned to speak less and listen more—a strategy that reduces opportunities for overshare or what I'll euphemistically call "verbal diarrhea."
But here's what doesn't make sense: I don't mind public speaking. Give me a microphone and a crowd and I'm fine. It's disembodied voices through a receiver that make me want to hide. I prefer my people in the flesh—actual faces, actual presence. If we have to communicate at distance, I'll take text or email, where I can edit myself and control the pace. I can craft words on a screen.
What I've learned through hard self-awareness: I need three hours alone to recharge after every four hours of social interaction. I've stopped hoping this improves with age. If anything, I suspect the symptoms are worsening.
If I owe you a phone call, I apologize. Sincerely. A text will arrive soon—much sooner than the call, I can guarantee.
