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Except to me. When another person asks me a question, I see algebra formulas. I desperately try to solve sentences as if each social interaction has the possibility to reach the moon or dramatically combust, the failure haunting me forever. Social anxiety has plagued me since cliques formed like crop circles in middle school hallways. And so I stayed out and stayed home, harboring a fear of facing another person. Awkwardness became a side effect. I am the person who finds a way to trip over the handles of her tote bag on the sidewalk, spilling out all of her tampons, as if some begrudged sitcom writer scripts my life. But this is a destructive and unrealistic thought. When I first heard about and joined Tinder in , after my most-popular-girl-in-high-school sister encouraged me to join, it seemed it could help ease me into a social scene by way of no-frills chatting. I canceled my first batch of dates, too nervous to transport the conversation from behind the screen to real life.
