When I was about six, our neighbors on the cul-de-sac invited my family over for ice cream. The neighbors, while lovely, were totally overwhelming to me – six boisterous kids of all ages, mostly boys. My goal at their house was to be invisible, so I copped a squat on the living room rug, well below the radar.
Unfortunately, while one of the older boys was crossing the room, he stopped to talk to someone and inadvertently stood on top of my hand. He must not have felt my scrawny fingers, like so many strands of shag carpet, beneath the weight of his shoe, as he continued to smush my hand into the floor for what seemed like an eternity.
My poor digits ached, tingled, then slowly went numb, while I said absolutely nothing—not, “Pardon me, you’re standing in my hand.” Not, “Ahem.” Not, “Ouch!” I couldn’t bear to draw attention to myself, even if I had a really good reason. That’s what you call painfully shy.
But wait, there’s more! The story continues at Mom.me…
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