Those that know me well know that I’m basically shy. Stick me in a situation where I know everyone I might come off as the bell of the ball, but in a group of strangers I shrink like wool in the dryer.
I’ve always been this way and will leave this mortal coil worrying about all the strangers I’ll have to meet wherever I end up. Usually I avoid large public situations like the plague. Social interaction that involves one on one conversation is my greatest fear, ironic considering I don’t have any problem one on one with my keyboard. After hello, which I’ve mastered sufficiently, I’m a fish out of water. I mumble, stutter and avoid eye contact as I try to say something profound while searching for the nearest exit.
As a small child, being a consummate day dreamer didn’t allow much for human interaction so verbal social skills were never developed. Then married at a embarrassingly early age and sheltered from anyone outside the stranger than fiction mother-in-law, also left little chance to develop socially. Party talk, light and casual banters, stuff of a bit more grist than the weather, completely shut me down. Once I get to know you and of course if the topic of the conversation is something I am familiar with, I’m all in, sometimes to the point of not knowing when to shut up. But if plunged into a group of strangers that I share nothing in common with, I become awkward and nervous and tend to blurt out something totally off topic like, “Did you know a bot fly will find a body within seconds of it dying?” Maybe my subconscious is saying these things purposely to chase you away, like a dog barking at the window until the person walks out of sight. There’s probably a name for me, anti-social or socially arrested, the “R” word, but political incorrectness or not, I is what I is, an embarrassment onto myself. The art of conversation is just that, an art. Something fine-tuned and honed with years of practice. One usually starts with the foundation in childhood and builds the levels as the years pass. In my case, I never made it out of the basement.
I didn’t have many friends as a preschooler or through grade school, and in our house; children were mostly seen and not heard. I was a quiet little wallflower, hanging out in my own little world of make believe which has the life learning skill set of zero. I wish now I’d been more extroverted but you can’t mess with genetics or environmental conditioning after the fact, they are what they are.
I was married very young. If I use an apple analogy, I would have been in the green stage and nowhere near ready to fall to the ground. I was a child bride at 16 with the maturity of day old wine. My mother-in-law was certifiable, not any kind of social role model for me unless gossip and bingo were required. The only other outlet, other than school where I was almost mute, I worked in a fast food restaurant learning the fabulous life skills of multi-tasking and getting a meal on the table in minutes. This skill has served me well but I never leaned the art of small chat, the gift of gab to deal with the customers. Luckily they did most of the talking while I wrote down what they said. I only had to reciprocate with questions of simple word phrasing, what would you like to drink? Do you want ketchup, tartar sauce or coleslaw with that? Not exactly the basis for flowing conversation and the repetitiveness of it all left nothing new to learn from.
I’m shy, I can’t deny it. In a new situation, I need what I refer to as a “buffer”, someone to stand between me and the stranger until I’m familiar and then I’ll either do a mean dogie paddle or drown. If the conditions are right, once I gain a bit of confidence, I have no problem talking your ear off but until that moment develops, I’m as closed mouthed as a wired jaw.
So I was well out of my comfort zone, a couple of Sundays ago, when I pulled up the big girl panties and forced myself to step into a social situation that was beyond my scope. That weekend was the Annual Rendezvous for the Nova Scotia Nonsuch Association at the Lunenburg Yacht club.
My mouth was dry and my hands were wet as I put one foot in front of the other and walked out on the wharf where all the boats were tied up. I had my camera, the excuse I was there to take pictures for my hubby who couldn’t attend. I was asked several times if I was a reporter which was neat, I mumbled no and kept snapping.
The boats were amazing. There were 16 Nonsuch yachts of various lengths of 26 30, 33 and 36 feet. For me, they are a beautiful sight; there is something about this design that captivates me and my pulse raced as I looked upon their beamy hulls.
Unfortunately, the boats all came with owners, all revved up from the afternoon race and full of celebratory chatter. They wanted to flock together, toast their good fortunes and eat fried spam, identified as a mystery snack that they readily ate. I tried it, was the first one to identify it from a childhood experience and was told I had discerning taste. I cleverly said, “But I like Spam” in my best Monty Python accent. There were chuckles and you’d think that would have eased me into the fold but after my big spam comment, I was as tongue-tied as ever.
The energy was palpable, a fun loving group, blessed with a beautiful day on the water and a chance to show off their fabulous boats. I managed to stumble through a few conversations but I was a jittery mess. Even owning a Nonsuch, a common denominator with everyone there didn’t help. I’m new to this lifestyle; don’t know all the terminologies of the boating world and fear being viewed as an unknowledgeable dimwit. I am like a new boat on the hard waiting to be launched, I need time to gain some experience.
I was turning to leave when I spied Jane, or maybe I should say she spied me although I was doing my best to be invisible. Our friends Chris and Tina, owners of the Nonsuch, “Felina”, who had planned to be there and were going to be my buffers, had to pull out when Tina’s father suddenly passed away and they were off to Ontario. They insisted I attend and they actually asked Jane to keep an eye out for me.
I’ve only met Jane a couple of times and was in awe of her ability as an amazing orator. I think she could manage speaking to the queen without batting an eye, be clever and interesting enough to charm the old gal and secure an invite to a palace dinner. Life is so unbalanced in so many ways. It’s funny how two people could be such polar opposites in the art of conversation.
My brain started churning. I think we are fairly close in age, we might have been in the same lineup for the gift of gab handout. Per the usual, I was probably daydreaming and missed when my name came up on the roster so she got a double dose. The powers that be, tired after a long day of doling out characteristics declared, “Jane, I’m not sure where that head-in-the-clouds Christine is, so you receive these last two shots of the art of conversation, go forth and mesmerize.” Then I’m spied in the corner playing with my thumbs and I’m told with a sigh, “My child, go forth and do the best you can, I suggest you find a good buffer.”
Jane spied me as I was about to leave. She wouldn’t take no for an answer so I stayed. It was hot so she handed me a bottle of water and dragged me around to the various boats for a tour. It was fantastic seeing below each vessel and all their custom upgrades that made them unique. No two were the same and I got a lot of interesting ideas for ours. Everyone was so happy to show me around and tell stories of the changes and work they’ve completed and I was actually able to add a few words to the conversation about my teak restorations.
At times I felt like a puppy at Jane’s heals, following her around to be introduced, shaking hands with people whose names I nervously forgot. She was the ultimate buffer, a perfect conversationalist between me and the stranger. I tailed her like a shadow; if she turned around quickly I bumped into her. As the evening wore on I relaxed a bit, had a lovely meal and stayed until the end, met some very nice people and I look forward to next year’s rendezvous when hubby, my #1 buffer till death do us part and I, bring Catalyst to join the fleet for some fun-filled days on the water.
I know what you all are thinking. Christine must have low self-esteem. But that’s not really where all this comes from. I’m tongue tied, a by-product of too much imagination and not enough interaction. I really didn’t learn any verbal social skills as a child and just like piano lessons, the earlier you start the better you play. Even today, there are times when I run out of things to say to good friends and stumble. That’s why I don’t like talking on the phone, the pressure to converse and fill the pauses can be paralyzing. I was always quiet and closed mouthed, preferring to observe my way through life. Unless you are interested in things we might have in common like rug hooking, blue and white china, dead bodies or poodles, to name a few, I just don’t know what to say to you.
I’ve been a daydreamer most of my life, more so in my youth but I’ve been guilty over the years of staring into space from winning the lottery, having a dozen or so poodles at my feet, a horse in the backyard, perfect gardens, looking good in a bathing suit, being short listed for the Giller Prize for my novel, why heck…even win it! Let me tell you, my interview on CBC radio and acceptance speech in front of the mirror is literary genius…...
Unfortunately as a child, when I should have been interacting with other kids I spent most of my time behind the closed door of my bedroom, hanging around in my head pretending I was everything I wasn’t in real life. I really liked my invented self; you would have liked her too. She was phenomenally friendly and outgoing, a chatterbox and one of the most intelligent, good looking, poised, talented, fun loving kids you could ever meet. I was fearless and spontaneous, with a sharp wit and contagious smile. Sometimes she even had an accent adding exotic lure to her charm. She was the bell of every ball, whose foot always fit the glass slipper. Yes, it was fun pretending, but the big problem with living in your head, it’s only ever a one sided conversation.
Imagination is an incredible tool; a brush that paints beautiful, happy ever after scenarios, a place where the sun always shines and tears are only for happiness. Even now, at 56, when all is quiet and I find a rare moment without distraction, I swing open that rusty hinged door of my imagination and step into a world where I never need a buffer........
I’ve always been this way and will leave this mortal coil worrying about all the strangers I’ll have to meet wherever I end up. Usually I avoid large public situations like the plague. Social interaction that involves one on one conversation is my greatest fear, ironic considering I don’t have any problem one on one with my keyboard. After hello, which I’ve mastered sufficiently, I’m a fish out of water. I mumble, stutter and avoid eye contact as I try to say something profound while searching for the nearest exit.
As a small child, being a consummate day dreamer didn’t allow much for human interaction so verbal social skills were never developed. Then married at a embarrassingly early age and sheltered from anyone outside the stranger than fiction mother-in-law, also left little chance to develop socially. Party talk, light and casual banters, stuff of a bit more grist than the weather, completely shut me down. Once I get to know you and of course if the topic of the conversation is something I am familiar with, I’m all in, sometimes to the point of not knowing when to shut up. But if plunged into a group of strangers that I share nothing in common with, I become awkward and nervous and tend to blurt out something totally off topic like, “Did you know a bot fly will find a body within seconds of it dying?” Maybe my subconscious is saying these things purposely to chase you away, like a dog barking at the window until the person walks out of sight. There’s probably a name for me, anti-social or socially arrested, the “R” word, but political incorrectness or not, I is what I is, an embarrassment onto myself. The art of conversation is just that, an art. Something fine-tuned and honed with years of practice. One usually starts with the foundation in childhood and builds the levels as the years pass. In my case, I never made it out of the basement.
I didn’t have many friends as a preschooler or through grade school, and in our house; children were mostly seen and not heard. I was a quiet little wallflower, hanging out in my own little world of make believe which has the life learning skill set of zero. I wish now I’d been more extroverted but you can’t mess with genetics or environmental conditioning after the fact, they are what they are.
I was married very young. If I use an apple analogy, I would have been in the green stage and nowhere near ready to fall to the ground. I was a child bride at 16 with the maturity of day old wine. My mother-in-law was certifiable, not any kind of social role model for me unless gossip and bingo were required. The only other outlet, other than school where I was almost mute, I worked in a fast food restaurant learning the fabulous life skills of multi-tasking and getting a meal on the table in minutes. This skill has served me well but I never leaned the art of small chat, the gift of gab to deal with the customers. Luckily they did most of the talking while I wrote down what they said. I only had to reciprocate with questions of simple word phrasing, what would you like to drink? Do you want ketchup, tartar sauce or coleslaw with that? Not exactly the basis for flowing conversation and the repetitiveness of it all left nothing new to learn from.
I’m shy, I can’t deny it. In a new situation, I need what I refer to as a “buffer”, someone to stand between me and the stranger until I’m familiar and then I’ll either do a mean dogie paddle or drown. If the conditions are right, once I gain a bit of confidence, I have no problem talking your ear off but until that moment develops, I’m as closed mouthed as a wired jaw.
So I was well out of my comfort zone, a couple of Sundays ago, when I pulled up the big girl panties and forced myself to step into a social situation that was beyond my scope. That weekend was the Annual Rendezvous for the Nova Scotia Nonsuch Association at the Lunenburg Yacht club.
My mouth was dry and my hands were wet as I put one foot in front of the other and walked out on the wharf where all the boats were tied up. I had my camera, the excuse I was there to take pictures for my hubby who couldn’t attend. I was asked several times if I was a reporter which was neat, I mumbled no and kept snapping.
The boats were amazing. There were 16 Nonsuch yachts of various lengths of 26 30, 33 and 36 feet. For me, they are a beautiful sight; there is something about this design that captivates me and my pulse raced as I looked upon their beamy hulls.
Unfortunately, the boats all came with owners, all revved up from the afternoon race and full of celebratory chatter. They wanted to flock together, toast their good fortunes and eat fried spam, identified as a mystery snack that they readily ate. I tried it, was the first one to identify it from a childhood experience and was told I had discerning taste. I cleverly said, “But I like Spam” in my best Monty Python accent. There were chuckles and you’d think that would have eased me into the fold but after my big spam comment, I was as tongue-tied as ever.
The energy was palpable, a fun loving group, blessed with a beautiful day on the water and a chance to show off their fabulous boats. I managed to stumble through a few conversations but I was a jittery mess. Even owning a Nonsuch, a common denominator with everyone there didn’t help. I’m new to this lifestyle; don’t know all the terminologies of the boating world and fear being viewed as an unknowledgeable dimwit. I am like a new boat on the hard waiting to be launched, I need time to gain some experience.
I was turning to leave when I spied Jane, or maybe I should say she spied me although I was doing my best to be invisible. Our friends Chris and Tina, owners of the Nonsuch, “Felina”, who had planned to be there and were going to be my buffers, had to pull out when Tina’s father suddenly passed away and they were off to Ontario. They insisted I attend and they actually asked Jane to keep an eye out for me.
I’ve only met Jane a couple of times and was in awe of her ability as an amazing orator. I think she could manage speaking to the queen without batting an eye, be clever and interesting enough to charm the old gal and secure an invite to a palace dinner. Life is so unbalanced in so many ways. It’s funny how two people could be such polar opposites in the art of conversation.
My brain started churning. I think we are fairly close in age, we might have been in the same lineup for the gift of gab handout. Per the usual, I was probably daydreaming and missed when my name came up on the roster so she got a double dose. The powers that be, tired after a long day of doling out characteristics declared, “Jane, I’m not sure where that head-in-the-clouds Christine is, so you receive these last two shots of the art of conversation, go forth and mesmerize.” Then I’m spied in the corner playing with my thumbs and I’m told with a sigh, “My child, go forth and do the best you can, I suggest you find a good buffer.”
Jane spied me as I was about to leave. She wouldn’t take no for an answer so I stayed. It was hot so she handed me a bottle of water and dragged me around to the various boats for a tour. It was fantastic seeing below each vessel and all their custom upgrades that made them unique. No two were the same and I got a lot of interesting ideas for ours. Everyone was so happy to show me around and tell stories of the changes and work they’ve completed and I was actually able to add a few words to the conversation about my teak restorations.
At times I felt like a puppy at Jane’s heals, following her around to be introduced, shaking hands with people whose names I nervously forgot. She was the ultimate buffer, a perfect conversationalist between me and the stranger. I tailed her like a shadow; if she turned around quickly I bumped into her. As the evening wore on I relaxed a bit, had a lovely meal and stayed until the end, met some very nice people and I look forward to next year’s rendezvous when hubby, my #1 buffer till death do us part and I, bring Catalyst to join the fleet for some fun-filled days on the water.
I know what you all are thinking. Christine must have low self-esteem. But that’s not really where all this comes from. I’m tongue tied, a by-product of too much imagination and not enough interaction. I really didn’t learn any verbal social skills as a child and just like piano lessons, the earlier you start the better you play. Even today, there are times when I run out of things to say to good friends and stumble. That’s why I don’t like talking on the phone, the pressure to converse and fill the pauses can be paralyzing. I was always quiet and closed mouthed, preferring to observe my way through life. Unless you are interested in things we might have in common like rug hooking, blue and white china, dead bodies or poodles, to name a few, I just don’t know what to say to you.
I’ve been a daydreamer most of my life, more so in my youth but I’ve been guilty over the years of staring into space from winning the lottery, having a dozen or so poodles at my feet, a horse in the backyard, perfect gardens, looking good in a bathing suit, being short listed for the Giller Prize for my novel, why heck…even win it! Let me tell you, my interview on CBC radio and acceptance speech in front of the mirror is literary genius…...
Unfortunately as a child, when I should have been interacting with other kids I spent most of my time behind the closed door of my bedroom, hanging around in my head pretending I was everything I wasn’t in real life. I really liked my invented self; you would have liked her too. She was phenomenally friendly and outgoing, a chatterbox and one of the most intelligent, good looking, poised, talented, fun loving kids you could ever meet. I was fearless and spontaneous, with a sharp wit and contagious smile. Sometimes she even had an accent adding exotic lure to her charm. She was the bell of every ball, whose foot always fit the glass slipper. Yes, it was fun pretending, but the big problem with living in your head, it’s only ever a one sided conversation.
Imagination is an incredible tool; a brush that paints beautiful, happy ever after scenarios, a place where the sun always shines and tears are only for happiness. Even now, at 56, when all is quiet and I find a rare moment without distraction, I swing open that rusty hinged door of my imagination and step into a world where I never need a buffer........
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