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by D. Cashon Klein
Lately, people run away from me at
parties. I have found that my social behavior has begun to
deteriorate again. Perhaps there's a section of the brain that is
the "control center" for appropriate behavior. Maybe, and this is
just a theory, this section of my brain was over-stimulated and
over-loaded. I'm hoping that "appropriate" cells will re-generate
over time before I need to cloister myself away from the
public.
I envy those who are magnets at social
gatherings. These are people that we're all glad to see. They are
kind. They are thoughtful. They are patient listeners. They look
good in their clothes. They are smart and well informed, yet
humble. They are articulate. We love these people.
I'm not lying when I tell you I was doing
well at communicating the last year or so.... People have been
genuinely glad to see me! Maybe it was too heady an experience for
me. Perhaps my ego started to bang around in my psyche in an
attempt to expel all those good feelings because they just
didn‘t fit.
I like to meditate a little before I have
human encounters. Because of this, my brain tends to be fairly dull
when first arriving at a party or when I go to a store. It's like
I've just awakened from a deep sleep and haven't had coffee.
Words have to be searched out and extracted like tenacious termites
from crown molding. Here are some examples:
A young man I admire and enjoy seeing at
parties was at a gallery show a few weeks ago. He smiled and said
hello. I was able to return this very basic greeting.
He politely nodded and began to move away.
I followed him like a stray puppy yapping at his heels. It finally
occurred to me to break away. I headed for the wine table. My
social skills still hadn't kicked in. His partner was waiting for
a glass of wine. "Oh hey! How are you?" I gushed. He was actually
happy to see me for an instant... until I continued to talk. "I
understand you got a tramp stamp on your back!"
Let me explain something here. I got a
tattoo this summer on my lower back. I did not know that they were
referred to as "tramp stamps" until my girlfriend showed me a
stupid column by a chauvinist writer who claimed that anyone with a
tattoo on her lower back was a particular type of person. He even
went so far as to contend that women with "tramp stamps" were not
the kind you bring home to the folks. Unbelievable. I'll admit,
you may not wish to bring ME home to the folks, but I assure you it
would have nothing to do with the ink on my back. During the
conversation she mentioned that this man to whom I was speaking at
the wine table had gotten a tattoo on his lower back.
"What did you say?" he asked me. "I heard
you got a tramp stamp." I went on, "You know, a tattoo on your
back."
"Who told you I got a tattoo? And what do
you mean tramp stamp? Why are you saying this!?"He was not smiling
at me any longer. I muttered something lame as an explanation, and
then excused myself.
A woman I recently met invited me to a
girls' night out at a little beach bar. She introduced me to a
couple of her friends. They were nice ladies, around my age, who
had spent time on or around the beach all their lives. They were a
bit weathered. I turned to my new friend and said, "Boy, I'm glad
I decided to stop laying in the sun a long time ago." I couldn't
believe I said this out loud. It was so mean. I looked at her
helplessly as if to say, "Hey, don't shoot ME dude, I'm just the
messenger." It was as if someone had injected me with a strong dose
of truth serum. I hadn't even had a glass of wine!
The other day as I strolled through
Publix, an elderly, little lady tapped me on the shoulder and said;
"Excuse me dear, did you mean to wear your skirt unzipped?"
Luckily, I had on my black undies, rather than my comfy, hot pink
cotton waisties with holes. I thanked her and zipped up. I believe
it was this same week that I stood at the copy machine with my
skirt tucked into my panty hose.
I went to a very serious, and
thought-provoking documentary recently. I was surrounded by many
intelligent people, the kind of people I mentioned earlier. It was
a small auditorium. It was quiet. The movie had subtitles. All of a
sudden there was an annoying quacking noise coming from, it seemed,
the other end of our row. I immediately assumed someone had
inconsiderately forgotten to turn off their cell phone. People
looked around, clearing their throats nervously. The quacking
persisted through most of the movie.
I have a duck key chain. I got it for
Christmas. (I actually got two duck key chains from two different
people). It goes quack-quack-quack when I squeeze it. I keep it in
the flap on the side of my purse.
I was leaning on my purse.
I will probably stay in for the next few
weekends until my brain heals.
Debbie Cashon Klein is a Safety Harbor
resident.
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