small talk shmall talk

I have a gift of awkwardness. I used to deny it. I thought I was really good at making friends several years ago. But, I had a few years of honest people telling me how bad I am at making people feel comfortable at first, so I have come to accept this flaw in me. I think its the conversations that have to be had before you get to talk about the things that you really want to know about someone that I dread and don’t want to bother with.

So for a while, I gave up on developing any new friendships and decided that if I died only knowing the people that I currently knew, that would be fine with me. To anyone who knows me, this small group of amigos I have are known as my bridesmaids. 9 in all. They are the ones that really know me…and we have together forged through the barrier of awkwardness into the beautiful land of commonality, appreciation, and inside jokes.

However, as of late, I have had a change of mind. I have decided to have another go at this thing called “small talk” that is apparently not so small. It is the second test any stranger is put to. It is where you pronouce your early judgements. “She’s nice…he was rude…she’s a talker…why is he so into himself…she must not like me very much.”

And–you guessed it–I fail these tests over and over. I am not a sweety-pie. I am not a giggler. I was never considered for miss congeneality. I can’t bring myself to laugh at bad jokes. I say things that most would only think. I can be oblivious to sensitivity.

But I have made the decision that though I am terrible at first “dates,” I will schedule them nonetheless. I will not be limited by my handicapp. I will just keep failing until I become good at this or I may miss a person worth knowing.

So, if you see me caught in that forced smile with a blank look on my face…give me an “A” for effort.

thanks walmart

Well…I have decided that blogging is the luxury of free time or sleepless nights. So, I may never be the blogger that many of you are simply b/c writing about myself falls low on my priority list when I have several projects on the table.

I will say that once again Walmart gave me a memorable experience. Apparently WM is cracking down on underage drug use and has now employed policies of carding customers attempting to buy items popularly used as illegal inhalants, such as spray paint.

So as I hurriedly waltz up to the “express” lane with my 4 cans of spray paint, drop cloths, and curly willow (for wedding decor) I get asked for ID.

I look at 50 yrd old “Mona” and say “What?” She says “You’re buying paint” and then turns her screen around into my line of sight as I read the words “IS CUST OVER 18YRS? Y/N” I say “Yes I am almost 30.” She helpfully replies “I need legal proof.” I remember that my license is in the car where it always is (half a 102° parking lot away) and I glare at Mona and wonder if she somehow feels some amount of satisfaction at making my life annoyingly difficult so that she can be assured that she did her part to reduce teen-drug use.

But can we please look at the facts: I am a 6ft tall curvy woman with a low voice, strong personality and (on that day) matching stylish but modest clothes. Sound like most 18yr olds to you?

After I retrieve my license and wipe the sweat from my brow, I am pleased to see that 5 more customers had found the same “express” lane as I get back in line behind them. A.J. Sawatsky happens to get in line behind me and I ask him at what age he thinks i will no longer be carded? Mona butts in and says “maybe when you look 40 or if you were fatter maybe.” Then as I hand her my license she says “your license is expired…i’m going to have to call my supervisor.” At this point I had had enough (b/c she was still impeding my buying of spray paint, she obviously had little use for logic, and b/c i had just found out that my license was expired). In a voice betraying my strong annoyance I say “I assure you that the day my license expired I did not get any younger.”

The supervisor then comes to check my ID and re-informs me that my license is in fact expired. I tell her that I just found that out and that the reason she was called over was to prove whether I was of 18 yrs of age. She then does finally pronounce that I am over 18 and may be allowed to purchase the spray paint.

I then grab my paint, run out of the doors, and push the igniter of the bomb I placed under Mona’s register and laugh as the store blows into a flame ball. Thanks Walmart.