Scene: A local marginally fancy Italian restaurant. I'm sitting alone at the bar, drinking a glass of red wine and waiting for my wife. A woman in her thirties is standing near the door, alone. Three sips into my shiraz, she walks over to me.


All of that really happened. The rest, below -- only in my head. Welcome to my delusions.


Woman: Um... hi. Are you Charlie?
Me: Uh, yeah. I'm Charlie.

Woman: Oh, hi! I'm Denise! It's good to finally meet you!
Me: Well... um, yeah. Hi there.

Woman: So -- wow, this is awkward, huh?
Me: Er, yeah. Actually, it is, sort of. I think you might be --

Woman: You know, I didn't expect you to be so tall. That's nice. I like tall men.
Me: Yes, but -- really? Tall guys, eh? Well... thanks. But I don't think --

Woman: You know, you've still got a lot of hair for a forty-eight year old. Not in great shape, though. And really, you wore that shirt? Please.
Me: Now, look -- first of all, I'm not forty-eight. And -- wait, what's wrong with this shirt? I like this shirt.

Woman: Well, there's no accounting for taste. It's okay, it's okay -- I don't mind taking on a 'project guy'. You'd better be packing heat in those jeans, though. Now lemme taste that wine.
Me: What the -- 'project guy'? Hold on, there -- I am a catch, dammit. Honey, you are lucky to be here with me, And if you want to see what's in these pants, then you'd better --

Woman: Wait. What is that on your finger? A wedding ring? Oh, you bastard. The dating service is supposed to screen you people out. And all those emails we sent? The cybersex -- the cybersex?! You were typing with that hand the whole time? Or... or worse! Ew! Dammit! I am out of here. Asshole!
Me: Wait, you don't understand -- I'm not Charlie. I mean, I am Charlie, but not that Charlie, whoever he is. It's all a mistake -- come back. We've never even had cybersex, and... oh. Hi, honey. Boy, you got here quick. Light traffic tonight, eh? Heh. Super.

Wife: Yeah, hi. You're an idiot. Now buy me dinner.
Me: Yes, dear. Say, by the way -- what do you think of this shirt?



So, yeah -- that never happened. Actually, the girl came over and asked if I was 'Frank'. But I wonder what would've happened if her blind date had been with a 'Charlie'. Or if I'd been thinking quickly enough to pretend I was 'Frank'. I think I'd be a lot happier if I could just let shit like this go. Super.

There are times when my lack of social grace can be a tad embarassing. Luckily, I have a wife and a few friends who've seen me occasionally act like a regular human, so my public faux pas aren't completely crippling. Just humiliating is all. Oh, goody.


My latest social gaffe -- that I know of, anyway -- came on Tuesday night. I play pool in a league on Tuesday nights, because I'm just that sort of dirty reckless heathen. I know billiards is the 'gateway game' to snooker and punting clubs and betting the farm on Nicaraguan jai alai. I still don't care. That's how I roll.


On this particular Tuesday night, I felt the call of nature and decided to take a trip to the little boys' room during one of the games. Our table was across the large room from the bathroom area, maybe eighty feet away. I was in the middle of a close game in a tight match, so the walk gave me a chance to strategize and clear my head. It was a nice added bonus to being able to play without hopping back and forth and crossing my legs during every shot. I really had to go.


As I wiggled my way to the rest room, I passed a table where two people were playing. The person not shooting was a girl I'd played a few weeks before. She's a very good player, and knows a lot of the players from leagues past and spending off-nights in hte pool hall. We hadn't talked much during our match -- crippling social deficiencies, remember -- so there was no reason to believe she'd remember or recognize me. By the time I passed by her, I forgot she was even there.


So of course, she said something to me.


(Friendly people always throw me off. I'm beginning to think I was raised by wolves. Lonely, isolationist, clumsy hermit wolves. With howl impediments and mangy coats, living in caves away from the rest of the pack.)


Specifically, what she said was a cheery, 'Hello, hello!'


Just as I passed by, deep in thought, lost in my own little world, and full of piss and vinegar. Or in this case, piss and Guinness.


It took me a step to register that she'd spoken -- and more preceisely, had spoken to me. I was past her already, but a sunny greeting from a friendly stranger requires a response, so I did my best to reply in kind. As I turned past the table, I looked back over my shoulder and said:


'Hrrrnnng!'


Or grunts to that effect. Basically, she said 'hello' and I made Wookie noises at her. And not in the good way.


Meh, what could I do; she caught me off guard. I don't expect people to actually speak to me in public. Especially people I don't know, and particularly people who obviously have normal people nearby they could be talking to. She's lucky she got a grunt; I'm sure I've failed to register unexpected salutations hundreds of times, and just kept on walking. I don't mean to be rude; I'm just an idiot.


I briefly considered whether there was any way I could fix my error. But I was now twenty feet away from the girl -- screaming 'HI!' from across the room didn't seem measurably 'better'. And walking back to explain the situation and my unfortunate pitiable condition wouldn't help much, either. She wanted a greeting, not a life story. Also, she probably wanted to not be peed on, and I couldn't guarantee that wouldn't happen if I returned to her table. So I kept on walking.


And when I was done, I walked around her table the other way, to avoid any sort of spontaneous 'fixing' I might feel compelled to try. I'd much rather just chalk up another perfectly nice person who thinks I'm a douchebag, and get back to my sad little hermit wolf cave out in the hills. It's just easier that way. Plus, the TV reception out there is phenomenal.

Being a fumbling, socially awkward doofus isn't all it's cracked up to be. Sure, I make it seem effortless -- even glamorous at times. But there are certain social pitfalls that are difficult for me and my fellow floundering fools to avoid. Chief among these is the issue of 'appropriate bodily contact'.


Nothing strikes fear in the heart of an intrepid introvert trying to play nice with others more than the question of how little -- or how much -- touching is called for in a given situation. No other means of interpersonal interaction keeps us lying awake, fretting and sweating, like the anxiety we harbor over appropriate bodily contact.


(Unless maybe it's anxiety over inappropriate bodily contact. Or usually, the lack thereof.


But that's a different post altogether. One pitfall at a time.)


I've personally had my share of sleepless nights, stressing over the finer points of social protocol. I've stumbled through nightmare scenarios involving 'The Goodbye Hug', 'The Job Interview Handshake', and that dastardliest doozy of them all, 'Greeting the Father-In-Law'.


(Do you shake the man's hand? Hug him tightly? Loosely? Pat him on the ass and tell him, 'Good job?'


I've never entirely figured that one out, which may have strained the relationship with my own father-in-law a bit. Mostly because I try something different every time.


Last time I saw him, I punched him in the arm and made raspberry kisses on his tummy. Man, was that an awkward Thanksgiving dinner.)


Who knows how we gawky and graceless geeks got this way? Maybe our parents never hugged us. Or hugged us too much, or too hard, or too soon after a large starchy meal. Maybe we were shunned by the other kids during our formative years, or stuffed in one too many lockers, or dropped on the 'interpersonal skill' bits of our brains while our skulls were still soft.


Whatever the reasons, we're left to play the hands we've been dealt. And sometimes, that involves touching people. And I don't mean people with whom we're rooming, are married to, or have just paid fifty bucks to behind the dumpster at Denny's. People in those categories, we know how to touch. Namely, 'gently', 'never', and 'for only the next twenty minutes'. Not necessarily in that order.


But what to do with the rest of the population? How to navigate the perilous straits of daily interaction with friends, family, coworkers, teammates, teachers, clients, and overzealous Starbucks baristas? If you touch too little, you'll be seen as cold and aloof. Touch too much, and you'll be 'clingy' and 'suffocating'. Or tossed out of the coffee shop, before your grande mocha is ready. What's a bewildered budding extrovert to do?


That's where I come in.


I've performed extensive research in many areas of interpersonal interaction. I've observed hundreds of 'normals' in the wild, and taken copious notes on their methods of greeting, grasping, and grooming each other. Based on the data I've collected, I can now offer solid instruction to the shy and awkward souls of the world about what to do -- and what not to do -- in just about any social setting. For instance:


Visiting Grandma


You haven't seen your 'Nana' or 'Grams' or 'G-Mo Dawg' for a while. Maybe it's been months, or even longer? What's the right way to show your special matriarch you love her, without rubbing off too much of that 'old person' smell?


Do: Give gummy old granny a hug, and a hello kiss. Whether that kiss comes on the lips, forehead or cheek depends on several factors -- the quality of your relationship, the current bushiness of her 'grannystache', and whether or not the old bird's already been hitting the sauce today.


Don't: Squeeze too hard, lift her off the ground, or apply a 'welcome noogie'. We know you love your granny, but she's a little fragile these days. Handle with care.


Also, no matter where you move in for that kiss, remember, under no circumstances -- no tongue. If anyone's going to be licking grandma's dentures, it's grandma. Or possibly grandpa, but it's best not think about that. Ever.


The Hearty Handshake


Regular, everyday handshakes are one thing. But how should you react when some overeager wristwaggler comes at you with one hand aimed at your palm, and the other ready to grab your wrist, elbow, or shoulder for good measure?


Do: Shake hands as you normally would, Ignore your assailant's second hand, and hope the exchange ends quickly, without undue molestation.


Don't: Slap at or brush away that second hand. For one thing, it's unfriendly. For another, you might end up accidentally interlocking fingers, and suddenly you're not shaking hands any more. You're waltzing, or playing a game of Mercy. Leave the pattycakes to the toddlers, and take your handshake like a man.


Also? No tongue. It's kind of a universal rule, really. I can't stress this enough.


Celebrating the Home Team's Touchdown


This one is particularly important, with the Super Bowl looming. If you're watching the big game and your squad punches it into the end zone, where should your celebratory machinations draw the line in terms of maintaining appropriate personal space?


Do: High-five. Chest-bump. Shake hands, touch fists, and clap your chums on the shoulder. Your team's goin' to Disneyland!


Don't: Embrace. Do 'the bump'. Slap ass, jump on someone's back, or lock arms to form a Rockettes-style kick line. Leave that nonsense for the overpaid jackholes who just scored six. If they go too far, it costs them fifteen yards; if you do, it'll cost you your dignity. And maybe your ride home.


And remember, above all else, under no circumstances -- no tongue.

I hope these words of advice will help you to avoid the social pitfalls -- and possible restraining orders -- of 'appropriate bodily contact'. If only someone had told me about these things, I would've avoided an awful lot of trouble and embarrassment.


Also, I might still be allowed in Grandma's house. That poor, traumatized wet-cheeked old woman.

I find myself in an awkward position.


There's a girl in my office who I think may be pregnant -- but not obviously so. Yet. Unless she's not actually pregnant, which is a very real possibility.


So now the timer is ticking. You only have a certain window of time once a woman starts showing -- or, maybe, simply 'enfattening' -- to say something nice about the joys of motherhood and how special this time is, and something something 'positively glowing!' something something.


(What is it about impreggerated ladies that makes people believe they want to be called 'glowing', anyway? It's bad enough that they'll soon look like amateur beach ball smugglers; do we really have to point out how shiny they've become, too?


Eventually, it just crosses over into 'cruel'. Haven't these poor women been through enough already?)


At some point, that 'compliment timer' dings, and if you haven't yet mentioned to the mother-to-be how beautiful and courageous she is for feeding a half-baked fetus from her insides until it shoots out her hoohah nine months hence, then you've lost your chance. If you hang around waiting for her water to break before saying, 'Oh look, you're preggers; hey, good luck with that!', then suddenly you're the insensitive jackass. It hardly seems fair.


On the other hand, there's the risk that this girl's just plumping up a little. There's no shame in that; it happens to the best of us. Maybe she's been cramming nuts in preparation for the long, barren winter ahead.


The point is, I can't be certain that the extra lumpiness under this girl's blouse is a burgeoning fetus, and not a growing mountain of triple lattes and Twinkie cream. So I can't risk commenting warmly on her newly-knocked-upedness, for fear of being wrong. It's one thing to share in the joy of a pregnant woman's girth with a hug and a soft pat; it's quite another to yank up some husky woman's shirt and fondle her navel because you want to 'feel the heartbeat'. That's when you'll find the one situation where the distinction between 'with child' and 'beer-bellied' is mostly irrelevant -- when you're being sat on and squished into the shag carpet.


So I'll be keeping a close eye on this woman and her expanding torso. In another week or two, it should become glaringly obvious whether she's birthing a baby, or binging on bonbons. At some point, the appearance of maternity clothes -- or a Weight Watchers' muumuu -- should give it away.


Or I could just ask one of her friends. But jeez -- where's the fun in that?

I've learned that sometimes, it's what you don't say that's important.


Specifically, it's been my experience that any sentence ending with, 'if that's what you're trying to say' is trouble. With a capital 'T'. And an italic 'r'. And the rest of 'ouble' in a nice Arial font. With serifs, and all that shit.


Anyway, I used to be in the habit of ending sentences with 'if that's what you're trying to say'. It seemed like a good idea -- at the time -- to strike a precautionary blow against whatever nasty things people might be thinking about me. Which seemed to happen quite a lot, really. So I'd have conversations like:


Boss: Say, did you finish that report that I asked you about yesterday?
Me: Well, I didn't blow it off and spend the afternoon surfing for panda porn at my desk, if that's what you're trying to say.

Boss: Oooo-kay, then. I see.


Or how about:


Friend: Dude, I just scored Sox tickets for Saturday. You wanna go?
Me: Well, I don't not want to go, and instead sit at home building a voodoo doll out of Play-Doh and hair from your shower drain, so I can stab at you for asking Joe first... if that's what you're trying to say.

Friend: Uh... is that a 'yes'?
Me: Sure, pick me up at noon. Go Sox!


Or maybe:


Wife: Honey, are you going to finish that ice cream?

Me: Well, I'm not going to slide the bowl down my pants, and then go outside to see if the dog will lick it off, if that's what you're saying.
Wife: Erm... it wasn't, really.

Me: Oh. Well, then, yeah, I'll finish it. Strawberry swirl is tasty!


All that does is get me into trouble. I realized that I wasn't so much nipping those ridiculous thoughts in the bud, as I was planting them in peoples' heads. Silly me, for figuring that everyone else's expectations of me are just naturally as low as my own


So now I've resorted to another plan. I don't want to bring up any specifics in these situations, but I still want to put folks on the defensive -- just in case they've come up with some other (and probably sicker) idea of the type of thing I'd be doing when I'm not working, watching baseball, or eating yummy ice cream. So now, I answer every question I get with an angry:


'What the hell do you mean by that?'


Sure, it makes ordering at a restaurant a bit tricky:


Waiter: May I take your order, sir?
Me: Just what the hell do you mean by that?

Waiter: Nothing. Nothing, sir. I was just wondering whether you were ready to order. No problem. Perhaps I should come back in a few moments?
Me: And what the hell do you mean by that?

Waiter: Um... well, just that maybe you need another minute to decide. But I can take it now, if you're ready. Do you know what you'd like?
Me: Hey, buddy -- what the hell do you mean by that?

Waiter: Look, this is getting tiresome, sir. Either give me an order now, or I'll come back in a few moments. Otherwise, I'll have to get the manager. You don't want that, do you?
Me: Yo, cupcake, just exactly what the hell do you mean by that?

Waiter: That's it! I'm getting the manager. We waitstaff don't need this kind of abuse, sir!
Me: (to wife) Man, what a douchebiscuit. And I heard the service here was good, too. Tsk.

Wife: You're an idiot. And get that ice cream out of your pants.


No, it's not a perfect system. But it's better. Maybe someday I'll graduate to 'Are you talking to me?', or the simple-yet-effective menacing, 'Whaaaat?!'


Meanwhile, I'm doing the best I can. And it seems to be working -- people ask me way less questions than they used to. Which is all I ever really wanted. Isn't it everybody's goal to just be left the hell alone sometimes?


('Now just what the hell did I mean by that?!?')