Antisocial Personality
I should not be allowed to make any more new friends. I have
a personality. Some people love it; some people hate it and I have come to terms
with that. I have, at times, worried I may have an anti-social personality (not
the DSM definition which seems to be one step away from serial killer but my
own definition which is always a better use of the word). Let me explain. I am
friendly, I love very deeply and I am very loyal. Plus, a good piece of cake at a
party seems like a good time. However, I tend to be a little wary of making new
friends. Perhaps this is because in my past, people seem to use the word friend
and evil interchangeably so I was unsure of what the word actually meant for a
good portion of my life. I am pretty good at spotting the difference now that I
am older. (I feel a warning is needed here, once a person has proved that they
know the difference between the two words, I tend to suction cup myself to their
shoulder for the rest of their lives… sorry.) Spotting the difference, tends to take time; when a
social occasion arises, usually with chocolate cake, (because why would you go
to a social event with no chocolate cake?) I meet new people. I start out glaring at
them suspiciously as they tell me what they do for a living, doubting that they
really do work in retail. And I say over and over “Well… it is really nice to
meet you…” interspersed with high-pitched manic laughter until they run away or
I suddenly run away claiming I have to pee. This serves to put the people in my life into two categories 1. People I suction cup myself to or 2. People I have to dive into bushes to avoid. What I am not prepared for is meeting someone
new, who perseveres through my conspiracy theories and sharing of my
bodily functions, and thus would like to become friends.
This recently happened to me when an acquaintance suggested
we meet for coffee. I said yes because she is nice and it seems like something
someone with my personality would do, you know, friendly and up for adventure
(plus there could have been cake!). I was not prepared for the instant regret
and panic I faced as the day drew closer. I began to realize this may be very
bad indeed. Because a social event has
multiple escape routes when, for instance, you find you have been speed talking
your way through the intimate gory details of your birth story. But meeting for coffee means they are
trapped with you. However being an optimist… (see these and subsequent posts.) I
thought, what have I got to lose?
NOTHING. And I might gain a new friend.
The day arrives, I have a busy morning but manage to squeeze
in a workout (which turns out to be a great distraction). However, the gym
clock is five minutes off (it used to be fifteen minutes but now that it is
five, I assumed it was right). So I push myself a little harder for five extra
minutes as it is doing wonders for my nerves (and hopefully my curves but this
is unlikely due to the constant anticipation of cake functions). Unfortunately,
as I enter the shower I realize my (the gym clock’s) mistake and then have to
speed my way through the shower. (see this post to see why this is a disaster.)
Anyway, I am now late and must begin our relationship with an apology. She insists
on paying which makes me panic and order a muffin (which I don’t want) and a
latte which I never drink… Why? I will never know because there was actual cake
which would have been the same calories as the muffin but I would have enjoyed
it. I then proceed to ask some questions about her personal life. I will not say
what they are here because despite my clear ineptitude, I do know one thing: that
you should definitely not blog about a new friend’s personal life. (For the
rest of you, I can’t promise anything.) However, let’s just say every subject I
brought up was the wrong one and probably quite painful for her to talk about. She handles this with grace and sublime social skills; I, however, panic and begin
to sweat; it’s dripping down my back, ribcage and also (strangely as I do
not ever remember this occurring before) across my upper lip which I can’t
hide. I check the time: one hour to go. What do I do then? Bring
up 9/11 of course and discuss how horrible it was and how mean I
think Osama Bin Laden is (or was, as I said over and over as I continued to
forget and then remember we killed him). She listens with sympathy, as I
describe in detail where I was and what I did, not just for 9/11 but the two
days following the disaster. I managed to talk continuously (and when I say
continuously I mean, not taking a breath and not allowing her more than an
occasional “oh my!”) about this tragic day (to a New Zealander no less) for 45
minutes. I blame the fact that I spent
several evenings watching all the shows on the subject last week: 1. Because I
swore I would never forget and 2. Because I keep hoping it will make sense or I
will stop crying about it. I blame it on this, but really who am I kidding? If I
hadn’t been watching that, who knows what I would have subjected her to… my
last gynecologic visit?
I finished off giving her some pointers about writing... you
know because I am a writer, not published or anything, just you know, tapping
the keyboard lots of times and words come out. Ignoring the fact that she has
her PhD in a related subject. As I
escape to my car, wiping the remaining sweat off my face, I ponder the epic
failure. It occurs to me how it was probably a good thing I didn’t really
get to date. Because if I had been let loose in those scenarios,
I would have to spend the rest of my life diving into bushes or coming up with creative disguises whenever I left the house. So I’m afraid I can’t make any new
friends which is bad for all of you because if you are on my friends list, you
have to stay otherwise I will end up “alone sitting in a crowded café mumbling
to myself: My ass is twitching. You people make my ass twitch”[1]
I want to be your friend!!!!!!
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