The Evening Schmooze

She immediately said, "Yes, so am I! Isn't he sexy."

I agreed. I adore Emeril. I admit it: I'd do him. Earlier in the day we'd already discussed the pros and cons of going to the party tonight, so I said, "It's a tough call--TV Night, Emeril. TV Night, Emeril." I finally came to the conclusion that despite the fact that Emeril was making some yummy breakfast foods, the show would be repeated at 11pm and I could watch it then.

So it was off to TV Night. This was a get-together planned by GSP students during which students could meet agents. The Graduate Screenwriters Association put together a little pamphlet of students and what scripts they have, both TV (the main attraction) and feature.

Marc and Evan, who planned most of the night, had invited a bunch of agents and gotten lots of RSVPs. Nonetheless, Elias Davis, who teaches the Sitcom class I'm in, called a couple of agents at his agency and asked them to come.

Which was good, because they were the only ones who showed. Sigh.

It was a good night, but I am hopeless. I can't schmooze. I can't schmooze with my classmates--I immediately become that stupid gawky kid who sat on the side of the floor and never danced. You know, that one. I can't talk to anyone, I can't think of anything to say, I act like a dork, no one wants to talk to me, no one wants to stand next to me. It's a wonder I don't simply burst into tears whenever I go out in public.

As the evening went on, the worse it got, and the more I ate. Which made me more unhappy.

(Did I mention that I gained 2 pounds this week? Oh yes. Now, there are lots of explanations why: I started back on some real food, which evidently causes weight gain; I wore my jeans to the weigh-in instead of the shorts I've worn the past couple of times; I'm having my period this week. Yadda yadda yadda. The fact remains I gained 2 pounds and now I'm afraid that it's all over, I'm going to lose control and blimp out. Actually, I'm mostly afraid of the losing control part. The joys of being a control freak.)

I'm pretty f'ing depressed right now, despite having agents tell me, "Send me your stuff." The words every writer longs to hear. They said it to everyone--I didn't even have a chance to pitch mine. I probably would have pitched about as smoothly as I schmoozed.

If you can't schmooze in this town, it's over. I've tried to think of some kinds of tricks to get me past this I'm-in-a-room-of-people-and-I'm-totally-alone feeling, but nothing's worked. I know I can be a fun person. Honest, I can. I'm usually very charming if I'm feeling relaxed or (shhhh) confident. But I get the slightest bit tense and--WHAM! I'm back to being a 10-year-old out-of-sorts dork. Sigh.

And here I go telling you about it. What kind of dork am I?

Lies, Damn Lies, and Statistics

Monday: 3 miles.

Yesterday: 3 miles. I was going to do 3.5, but in the middle of said run the heavens opened up and started raining on me. Okay, it was more like sprinkling, but there was wind (and it didn't matter which direction I faced--the wind always sent the rain directly into my face) and it was cold and I said, to hell with 3.5 miles.

Today: worked out in the gym. Did two sets of each weight, and did more reps this time. Felt pretty good.