Like the Dentist
When I was an undergraduate my good friend Jennifer set me up on a blind date. It was very kind, and I was flattered by the guy she chose for me. He was considerate, handsome, talented, and intelligent, and he had a really fun evening planned.
I was not comfortable. He was among his friends, but I was alone among strangers. The social situation sent me into some kind of detachment mode. I couldn't smile, or express anything pleasant. It was as if my whole personality had been erased by some massive anxiety overload.
Even at the best of times my personality is confusing, and even offensive to the casual observer. I suppose I am not for the casual observer. I am like a stinky cheese; only the true connoisseur can enjoy me.
However it really is, I massively failed. I knew I had failed. I could read it in every pitying expression, in the things he talked about, and the careful way he moved. I cried all evening after I got home, and even more the next morning. I can remember sitting on trax heading down to Sandy to confront Jennifer with a painful play-by-play. I was reading T.S. Eliot's "The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock" in the bluish morning light that bounces around in the silver and white interiors. Suddenly I was crying again, alone in the car with my head twisted painfully to lean against the greasy window. I read the line perhaps ten times that says, "I should have been a pair of ragged claws / Scuttling across the floors of silent seas." I memorized it then.
What a misery it was to know it was my fault! He had been a gentleman from beginning to end. He had driven up to Salt Lake City from Provo to pick me up, and then again to drop me off. He had given me delicious food, fun games, and introduced me to good people who just wanted to have some innocent fun. He was good people - practically perfect. I simply couldn't fit that, and knowing that I couldn't, I shut down. It wasn't the last, or the first time.
I wrote him an apology/thank-you note. On the back of the envelope I composed a sort of regretful sonnet, but it came back to me. To be fair, I wouldn't have given me the right address either, whether I'd already been there or not. I think something about me just screams "potential stalker" (like my voice, maybe? *giggles*) As if any of them have the slightest clue what stalking really means. Bitter much?
I am strange. I am the stinky cheese. I am a pair of ragged claws scuttling, anomalous.
In the brilliant words of the writers of Scorched, "the cheese stands alone."
Remind me to tell you about Grant.
I was not comfortable. He was among his friends, but I was alone among strangers. The social situation sent me into some kind of detachment mode. I couldn't smile, or express anything pleasant. It was as if my whole personality had been erased by some massive anxiety overload.
Even at the best of times my personality is confusing, and even offensive to the casual observer. I suppose I am not for the casual observer. I am like a stinky cheese; only the true connoisseur can enjoy me.
However it really is, I massively failed. I knew I had failed. I could read it in every pitying expression, in the things he talked about, and the careful way he moved. I cried all evening after I got home, and even more the next morning. I can remember sitting on trax heading down to Sandy to confront Jennifer with a painful play-by-play. I was reading T.S. Eliot's "The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock" in the bluish morning light that bounces around in the silver and white interiors. Suddenly I was crying again, alone in the car with my head twisted painfully to lean against the greasy window. I read the line perhaps ten times that says, "I should have been a pair of ragged claws / Scuttling across the floors of silent seas." I memorized it then.
What a misery it was to know it was my fault! He had been a gentleman from beginning to end. He had driven up to Salt Lake City from Provo to pick me up, and then again to drop me off. He had given me delicious food, fun games, and introduced me to good people who just wanted to have some innocent fun. He was good people - practically perfect. I simply couldn't fit that, and knowing that I couldn't, I shut down. It wasn't the last, or the first time.
I wrote him an apology/thank-you note. On the back of the envelope I composed a sort of regretful sonnet, but it came back to me. To be fair, I wouldn't have given me the right address either, whether I'd already been there or not. I think something about me just screams "potential stalker" (like my voice, maybe? *giggles*) As if any of them have the slightest clue what stalking really means. Bitter much?
I am strange. I am the stinky cheese. I am a pair of ragged claws scuttling, anomalous.
In the brilliant words of the writers of Scorched, "the cheese stands alone."
Remind me to tell you about Grant.
The kindest act, I said then, is to laugh;
ReplyDeleteNo Momus, like the silence in your eyes;
The pauses, when I heard you realize
How Pythonesque my person was by half.
I’m mystified that you were at your best
Adonis is too perfect a charade.
Medusa, as her first impression made,
Must hope she’ll be forgiven on behest.
I flinch, recalling everything I said,
Or yet the moments when I blush and hide.
The Artemis conceal’d within my head
Would be more graceful than the brute you spied.
Glanced Perseus, askance, and horror fled,
His fate in stone, untimely death denied.