Over the summer, I had a discussion with one of my consultants about how both he and his partner are introverts whose jobs require that they be extroverted. I've sort of gotten thrown into that same boat with my new role at my job, and I wonder if I'll ever get past my current natural instinct to hide in the restroom or excuse myself to make an unnecessary phone call rather than mingle during a cocktail hour. I feel like it's in my DNA to be an introvert, and although I can and do force myself to be sociable and even sometimes charming when my job requires it, I can't help thinking that it'll always be a huge chore, and that it won't ever come naturally.
Anyway, I have the same problem in non-work-related social situations, and I realized on Friday that in those situations I can't even bring myself to make an overture when I see someone else who's in the same boat: probably an interesting and nice enough person, but socially awkward and incapable of inserting herself into an extant group of acquaintances who are already engaged in conversation.
On Friday, I went to a Southern Living at Home party -- I keep calling it Country Living, just like I keep saying I have an iPod Mini, even though I have the Shuffle, not because I aspire to have the Mini, but because I just can't keep it straight -- which is sort of like the 2006 version of the Tupperware party. As far as I can tell, it's pretty similar to all of those surburban housewife gatherings that Minnams dreads so much. All these women get together and drink lots of wine and stare at the buffet table, and then eventually one of the women calls the group to order and walks everyone through a catalog of home goods, like bowls and trivets and trays and stuff. My favorite part of the Southern Living party was that the sales representative -- a friend of my cousin, who was actually hosting the party, which is why I went -- kept saying things like, "This could be great just as a decorative piece," and, "Chime in if you've purchased this item, because it's always great to hear what others have done with it. Sometimes, I just look at these things and wonder what the heck to do with them." I wish she'd had a comment card of some sort, because I'd have liked the opportunity to tell her anonymously that it's probably not the best idea to tell your potential customers that you're trying to sell them something that they obviously don't need, if you can't even come up with a good rap about what it actually
is.
Anyway, I knew a handful of people at the party: my mom, two of my sisters, two cousins and an aunt, plus a few people that I know by sight, at least, from gatherings over the years. So I wasn't feeling overly anxious or conspicuous, despite being ten years younger than most of the women in the room, and also being one of the few without kids (and also without apparently endless disposable income, judging by the order forms I spotted). But at one point I spotted someone I don't know, hovering at the edge of the buffet table, looking like she didn't know quite what to do or where to stand or which conversation to join.
And I did nothing, except think how glad I was to have people I knew there, which seems awfully mean of me. I could hear what she was thinking; I have been in her position countless awkward times -- why could I not just go over and strike up a conversation? I think it's because I worried about making her feel even more awkward, because two socially awkward people together is sometimes -- if not usually -- even more uncomfortable than one, or two separately.
I figured I'd say, "Hi, I'm Tangent, the hostess is my cousin. How do you know her?" and then she'd tell me, and I'd say, "Oh, great. So do you live nearby?" or something, and she'd tell me she lives an hour from me, in a town I've never heard of, and then we'd just stare at each other until one of us blinked and said, "So, I'm gonna get a drink" or, "Pardon me, I need to use the restroom" or, "I think my mom needs me." So I kept close to my kin, and she seemed to relax a bit when the mingling stopped and we actually could focus on the sales pitch, but still. I am so pathetic.
This is getting really long, so just a handful of other situations this week where I was socially uncomfortable and/or a misfit:
-- The Smelmooo and I went to the movies with a couple we haven't spent a lot of time with, and it was our first movie date together, and they turned out to be People Who Talk During a Movie. I don't enjoy PWTDAM, unless it's a singalong or some sort of movie event like Rocky Horror where you're not supposed to be quiet, or if it's a classic everyone's seen a million times and everyone's sitting around the living room saying good quotes along with the actors. Otherwise, I hate PWTDAM, and I was secretly glad that the Smelmooo was between the friends and me, because if they'd been directly next to me, and they'd tried to recruit me into their movie conversation, I'd wouldn't have been able to keep from snapping at them.
-- My failure to watch Grey's Anatomy has seriously diminished my social capital, I think. I've actually really liked it the few times I've watched it, and I don't know why I don't make it appointment TV, but at this point I feel like it's sort of late to jump on the boat. But I'm clearly missing something pretty powerful, because between Wednesday evening and Thursday afternoon, three people told me, separately, that they were having really sucky weeks, but at least they had Grey's to look forward to, so everything would be okay.
-- On my way out of the office last night, I stopped to pee, and as soon as I got into the stall, the woman two stalls down said, "Uh....Tangent?" and I said, "Yes, hi." To which she replied, "I'm so sorry. I'm pooping. I'm sorry for stinking up the place, but I just could not hold it until I got home. I hope I'm not killing you." All I could do was laugh, and feel intense gratitude for her frankness, because really, most people are just not that honest. An ironic breath of fresh air.
