Bright lights and Crowds and Smells Oh My

Recently I hosted a small birthday party for my daughter at an arcade. My husband and
I loaded our van with six giddy girls and headed off to create happy memories with friends and family. The kids were brimming with excitement, planning what games they wanted to play first and what they would buy with their tickets. I, on the other hand, was steeling myself for a long, loud night in a hot, cramped and peoplely room.

Brooke on her 13th birthday...not the birthday party day I'm writing about but still worth sharing. I'm staring at that leg in the background and can't for the life of me figure out who it belongs to. Who are you a part of mystery leg?

Saturday night at the Nickelcade is a happening place to be apparently. The building was more packed than I expected. For a moment I started thinking of ways to talk the kids out of wanting to be there. I could offer donuts or we could rent a movie instead. But I could see in their faces that this was just what they were hoping for. The noise and the smells and all the bodies didn’t seem to put a damper on their enthusiasm. The kids dispersed with my husband in tow to find their games of choice and I stuck by my youngest. We squished behind people, scooted around people and did our best to navigate through the maze of gamers without making any kind of physical contact.  But as I was trying to keep up with my youngest I tripped over the unexpected legs of a man kneeling in front of a game he was playing.  I stumbled widely but didn’t fall to the ground. A few people turned to watch me flail, but lost interest when I didn’t face plant. I felt embarrassment coloring my face. I wanted to turn to the long legged fellow and say, “I thought you were a child down there! Your legs are taking up what precious little walking room there is in this God-forsaken place.” But alas, harsh words are not my thing so I apologized for tripping over him and noted that he scowled and didn’t say “Are you okay?” or “ I’m sorry.” Que the nonsensical blurry eyes and tightening throat. I hurried to keep up with my youngest, annoyed at my watery vision and all of these people. I was not crying, but it felt like a possibility and that alone made me want to bail. Instead, we threw miniature basketballs, smashed the heads of gophers back into the holes from which they came, played air hockey, virtual jump rope and then we came to the final game of the night. I helped my child get the last of her coins into a brightly colored and flashing machine so she could enjoy pretending that she was driving a motorcycle. I stood next to her, knees bouncing. I’m not sure why I rock or bounce my knees ever so slightly when I’m agitated but I do, like the movement will hurry things along.  I looked around the cramped and strobing room to see the birthday girl and company running with a trail of tickets close behind them and thought to myself “ Oh good, they’re done!” Once my motorcycling wannabe lost her game, we set out to find my husband and let him know it was time to go. “ I think the kids are done, let’s go.”
He looked at me for a moment  “ We have barely here for fifteen minutes and we still have all these coins.” He revealed an abominable baggy of coins that I wanted to grab from his hand and throw across the room. “ But.” Is all I managed to say before I realized that the kids were just getting started. Heaven help me. I mustered my inner strength for the sake of my offspring, grabbed a few coins from the baggy and headed towards the next obnoxious machine.

This was a hosted at home party for Morgan's 14th birthday. The noise level rivaled the arcade but at least I could escape to my room when the volume drove me to it.

Hours later, or maybe it was just another fifteen minutes later, we headed to the prize counter with several energetic children to claim our rewards for a night of fun and torment. It was mayhem at that counter, but I realized that my husband was managing most of the kids just fine. He wasn’t even frazzled by the multiple toy requests and ticket counts being shouted out at once. I threw out one more request in his direction. “Do you need my help here or can I head to the car now?”
“Go ahead, I’ve got this.” Bless that beautiful man. I evacuated that building like it was on fire.

Alone in my dark quiet car, my ears still ringing from all the noise, I could feel my breathing slow down, my bouncing legs relax and that glorious mellow feeling that I love start to return.

I had never heard the phrase Highly Sensitive Person before. I’d heard “You’re too sensitive” and “Don’t be so sensitive” but I had never considered that my being sensitive wasn’t one of my flaws and that it could be the source of many of my strengths. Not long after my taxing arcade outing, I took the Myers-Briggs personality test and learned that I am an INFJ personality, and what that  means. This  started me on an introspective journey that has helped me come to better know and accept myself. Not all INFJ’s are HSP's , but it’s not uncommon either.

I am highly sensitive and that contributes to my empathy. I am sensitive and that means I hear you, even when you’re not putting words to those emotions that I sense bubbling beneath the surface. I am sensitive and that means treating others with gentleness comes naturally and you can’t tell me that that is not a gift.

I wish I could tell all the teenage daughter naysayers to shove it.  Teenage daughters are so funny, smart and capable. I adore teenage girls. 

 From now on I will be hosting all birthday gatherings at home and you would have to pay me large sums to step foot in another arcade. But, being highly sensitive is not a character flaw. In fact, it is an attribute to be proud of.