I am an extroverted introvert. Yes, we exist. No, it’s not a riddle. It means I can work a room with charm, banter, and enough social pizzazz to look like I was born in sequins and confetti. But what it really means is that by the end of said room-working, I am secretly longing to crawl under a table and pretend I’m invisible.

Some events? Pure bliss. Small, intimate gatherings where I know everyone’s name, their favorite cocktail, and maybe even their childhood trauma. There, I am at home. I sparkle. I thrive. Give me six friends in a cozy living room, and I could host the Great Gatsby without breaking a sweat.

But the dreaded small “meet and greets”? That’s when being an extroverted introvert becomes an Olympic-level performance. You plaster on the smile, nod like your neck is on commission, and make small talk about the weather, all while your inner introvert is screaming: Abort mission! Hide in the coat closet!

The paradox is this: I can be “on.” Brilliantly, dazzlingly “on.” Until I’m not. And when the switch flips, I’m done. No encore. No after-party. Just me, a dark room, Netflix, and perhaps a snack that doesn’t require social interaction to acquire.

So yes, I am the best extrovert until I’m not. Which makes me wonder:maybe extroverted introverts are just superheroes with faulty batteries. We light up the world when charged, then retreat to our cave to power down. And honestly? That feels like the most human superpower of all.