I’ve spent a significant portion of my life not knowing what to do with my arms. At six foot seven, there is a lot of me to organize.
I’ve already covered the fact that I grew so fast that merely walking sometimes felt like the first steps of a baby giraffe. Now imagine that same baby giraffe running up and down a basketball court, unintentionally tripping and stumbling over his own feet. Grace was apparently something other people got during puberty.
My mother let me pick out my own clothes for my first day of high school. I felt pretty cool as I selected a polo shirt, jeans and a belt. I tried everything on and thought I looked awesome.
I got to school and one of my friends asked if I had dressed like that intentionally.
I was confused and asked what he meant. He pointed toward the American flag hanging on the wall.
Then it hit me.
Blue polo. White jeans. Red belt.
Oh.
There are few things more awkward than being a teenager who thinks he finally got something right, only to discover that he has apparently dressed himself for a Fourth of July parade. I spent the rest of the day suddenly very aware of my clothes. Nothing was actually wrong with what I was wearing, but at that age, being noticed for the wrong reason felt like a fucking emergency.
Of course, at six foot seven, not being noticed wasn’t really an option either.
Unfortunately, awkwardness doesn’t disappear when you become an adult. You just find more sophisticated ways to experience it. Meeting someone for the first time, first dates, trying to flirt, misreading a situation, or saying something and realizing approximately three seconds later that perhaps your mouth should have consulted management first.
I’ve become particularly skilled at that last one.
Photography has given me a strange amount of experience with other people’s awkwardness too. Put a camera in front of someone and eventually you’ll hear some version of, “What do I do with my hands?”
Apparently none of us know.
I’ve spent years telling people where to stand, where to look and what to do with their hands while quietly ignoring the fact that I still haven’t figured out what to do with my own. Part of being a photographer is helping someone get past that awkwardness long enough for the person underneath it to show up.
I’ve spent a lot of my life trying to avoid awkward situations, which turns out to be a terrible strategy if you also want to have new experiences. Anything unfamiliar has the potential to be awkward simply because you haven’t figured it out yet. Sometimes you’re going to say the wrong thing. Sometimes you’re going to misunderstand. Sometimes you’re going to look stupid.
And sometimes you’re apparently going to dress like a flag.
Getting close to someone involves awkward moments too. We misunderstand each other occasionally, say something badly, reveal something vulnerable and then wait to see how it lands. We learn each other’s boundaries, humor and habits. As we get more comfortable with each other, something changes. We don’t necessarily stop being awkward. We just stop being quite so embarrassed by it.
Yesterday was partly about becoming comfortable with looking ridiculous. Today I’m realizing that awkward doesn’t always need fixing.
I’m probably never going to become graceful. At six foot seven, I’ve accepted that some chairs will be too small, some doorways will be suspicious and there will never be a natural place for my knees on an airplane. I’m still going to say things occasionally that sounded considerably better before they left my mouth. I’m still going to have moments when I don’t know what to do with my hands.
That’s okay.
I’m starting to realize that feeling awkward doesn’t necessarily mean I’m somewhere I don’t belong. Sometimes I just haven’t figured out where to put my fucking arms yet.