At some point in 2021, a freshman Kevin Gramling passed someone in the fourth-floor hallway of Parkside International Residential College. I couldn’t tell you who this person was now, and back then I couldn’t tell you much about them either. We weren’t really friends, nor were they particularly unique to me. That’s important because as we passed each other, they said “Hey,” and I said, “Hi, have a good day!” and then I became very angry with myself and then I went and cried on the stairs of the nearest parking lot. 

I was mad because “Have a good day!” was the wrong thing to say, and I hated that I still panicked like this, and I cried because it was very confusing to feel angry at myself for telling someone to have a good day. 

It was disappointing to arrive at USC and find that college does not come with the kind of sudden and effortless holy revival I felt was promised. I was somehow still awkward, still Kevin. The Kevin who walks around so engrossed in his daydreaming and mythologizing that, for fun, you might say hello just to see if you can catch the exact moment he rips back from four dimensions away. Blinking at you simply, you could really believe he is adjusting to being back on Earth. 

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A person’s awkwardness is personal and unique to them — there are many different reasons why someone might be or feel awkward. You might have difficulty reading social cues, or you are able to read them but you second and thirdguess yourself until you’re caught in a puzzle. Maybe you read social cues but have an adverse reaction to certain ones.

In my case, much of my awkwardness stems from my difficulty in navigating social scenarios that rely on non-explicit forms of communication. The everyday example of this is that moment in USC Village when you find yourself on an inevitable collision course with a loose acquaintance. 

Everything is ambiguous — where are they headed? Are they expecting you to stop and catch up, or would they secretly be burdened? Will it be immediately obvious that you forgot their name? The nuances are so subtle that something as instant as a light smile paired with momentarily slowing down makes the difference between a long, awkward conversation or your buying groceries in a timely manner.

My difficulty with the socially unexplicit really shines, though, on dates — and, of course, in the bedroom. The cues for communicating attraction on a date aren’t usually explicit, even if they are very clear. On too many occasions, I’ve interpreted initial nervousness as disinterest, and I’ve spent the rest of the date awkwardly ceding to my eventual defeat until an intentional brush of a hand or, better yet, an explicit compliment complicates my initial reading.

I recall now a moment from one of my first hookups when the social etiquette of the one-night stand was still entirely unclear to me — in the silence immediately following, I wanted to make it clear where I stood, so I sat up from the bed, threw a thumb up and went, “Nice.” 

It seemed obvious to me that my life would improve if I became more confident in my ability to navigate social encounters, so I resolved to amend my awkwardness. Because I mostly understand life by interpreting it into stories, it was through that cosmovision that I made my attempts. 

I began by simply writing myself in as the confident, charismatic main character, but I couldn’t quite convince myself of such high fantasy when I still ducked off the road to avoid boys. I tried then to listen to angrier music and imagine myself an outcast who doesn’t care what anyone thinks. But I do care, so I gave up on that too.

You might understand, then, why the cringe comedy unit in my second-year television analysis class was significant. I watched closely as the shows “Fleabag,” “Extraordinary” and “Insecure” centered awkwardness and crowned the awkward person an everyday hero. These shows showed me how I, with my skill of existential storytelling, might be able to fashion a kind of radical self-acceptance.

I can be the awkward main character. 

Every element of the cringe comedy is already there — the constant self-narration, nervous laughter, love interests, friends and a main character who thinks very hard but can’t figure any of it out. 

With some imagination and a good sense of humor, there was a transfiguration as I turned my life into something the exact same and entirely new. The awkward blunders that used to take months and years now take minutes to realize themselves funny and absurd. 

I’m still awkward; I usually feel anxious outside of Trader Joe’s, and I definitely haven’t figured out what to say right after sex yet, but it’s easy to let go when, worst-case scenario, I put on a pretty good show for myself. It’s not a steamy rom-com or some high-brow drama. It’s a cringe comedy, and, as it happens, that’s my favorite genre.

Kevin Gramling is a senior writing about his search for meaning amid the daily chaos of being a USC student. His column, “The (S)existentialist,” usually runs every other Monday.