Stunted social skills nearly serve up starvation

A man of many hobbies but few, if any, true talents, I am fully aware of my own shortcomings. Near the top of this list of absent skills is the art of making small talk.

Sixty-two years along, my personal social butterfly has yet to progress beyond the caterpillar stage. Avoidance is my primary survival strategy. Drop me in a room full of people with whom to casually converse, and I’ll crawl my way to the nearest corner and commune with a houseplant.

Fortunately, exactly 40 years ago this week, I was rescued from a life of shadow-dwelling obscurity by a girl who could coax a lively conversation from a lump of coal. Kristin remains my social interaction concierge, my guide and caretaker, at gatherings that require anything beyond a simple nod or handshake.

Still a social misfit all these years along, I stick close to the Queen of Congeniality at events that may by their very nature require casual patter. In this manner I can still appear fully present but remain largely absent at the very same time.

I employed this strategy most recently at a gathering of Kristin’s high school classmates. All was proceeding according to plan, with Kristin happily chatting as I stood just off her arm, smiling pleasantly now and again while stealthily eyeballing the table of mouthwatering hors d’oeuvres across the room.

The thought that I would soon be grazing that spread, paper plate in hand, served me well for the first several minutes while the ladies exchanged niceties and caught up on the basics. Knowing they had all night to delve deeper into their recent joys and sorrows, I presumed food would follow a momentary catch-up.

Unfortunately, I underestimated the women’s seemingly unlimited ability to segue from one subject to another. As the moments wore on, my pleasant smile began to inadvertently fade toward a drooling scowl. I held my ground but could slowly feel my stomach begin to eat my brain.

When the conversation turned from purses to fingernails, I began to reconsider this life I had chosen. I’ve read about tortures that involve the endless playing of the same song over and over and over again in an effort to break a captive's will. Nail wraps, dip powders, gel art, water decals, heat-activated wraps, 3D acrylic encapsulated designs … you’d have thought I was listening to a materials visioning session among a group of aerospace engineers.

My brain finally broke. I was ready to tell them anything they wanted so long as I could step over and grab just one jalapeno popper. My desperation must have finally become evident as one of the ladies joked, “So where do you have your nails done, John?”

“I generally use the clippers over the bathroom trash basket technique,” I laughed. “The price is right, and the finish never fails me.”

With that, I was granted a clean exit from the group and a clear run at the goody table.

It’s probably time for me to start developing some social skills. My very survival may depend upon it.

Kristin and John Lorson would love to hear from you. Write Drawing Laughter, P.O. Box 170, Fredericksburg, OH 44627, or email John at jlorson@alonovus.com.