I drive up the unfamiliar street, looking at the numbers on each house until I find the one we want. I park and we get out of the car. My internal temperature spikes–though it’s August, it isn’t hot, yet the sweat beads on my brow as I retrieve the dishes I made for the pot-luck.
Yesterday, I made quinoa tabbuleh salad and white bean hummus. I picked the cucumbers from my garden, trimmed and minced the spring onions, selected the best sprigs of parsley, mint, and coriander. I whisked the tahini and lemon juice into a cream, blending it with the bean and garlic puree, testing the flavors repeatedly until the profile of earthy/salty/tart was just where I wanted it.
I took extra time and care with each task, not to show off my skills or with the intent to impress, but simply to keep my mind occupied so it wouldn’t be thinking forward to this moment, walking up the steps of a house, preparing to enter foreign territory, about to meet new people.
We are met at the door. Our host is jovial and greets us warmly, as is his way. Later, I will find out that he, too, is an introvert, who has simply learned to “pass” amongst normal humans, but for now my mind is filled with dread. My heart rate speeds up, my gaze darts about, taking in all the newness–new surroundings, new sounds, new aromas. The slack-rope is before me, arcing away below my feet, and I must take my first step along its length.
The front room is dark after the glare of summer’s sun, but my eyes adjust and I see it is empty. We move forward and in the next room I see them. People sit along the dining area wall and stand near the buffet. I have ever seen any of them before. This is the gantlet, the test, the trial. I straighten my spine. I put on my company smile and nod as I move in, but I falter and through them, past them, retreating from the danger of the slack-rope to the safety of the kitchen. I am given a short respite as my host inquires about the dishes I have brought. We fuss about with serving spoons and making room on the buffet table.
My parole is brief, and I must face once more the task I dread. I steel myself, force myself to concentrate. I go through the steps in my mind–the handshake (a gentle, two-handed version to impart a confidence I do not feel), the smile (kind-hearted, show no teeth, and smile from the eyes so it doesn’t look forced), the eye contact (don’t stare at that earlobe or the hair in the nose, just stick to the eyes, notice their color), repeat the name (lean in, feign bad hearing, so you can repeat it with a question mark as if you didn’t catch it the first time), nod, freshen the smile, and move on.
I step out onto the slack-rope. My feet waver. The names, the faces, their relationships to others, they come fast and quick. I try to capture the details, try to hold onto them, but the names wriggle like fish, the connections between strangers evaporate like drops of water on a hot sidewalk. The slack-rope wobbles beneath me. I compensate, but I’m failing, falling.
I hear a familiar voice, see a familiar face. Someone I know is here, and she offers me a glass of wine. I grab onto it like a guy wire. My balance returns. I take a breath, and complete the introductions.
On my own, I remember only one name, Linda, because she told me a story about her name, about how when she was young, it was an unusual name. I said I had that same experience, when young, and I was an adult before I met another Kurt. She brightened, and told me that she had a nephew named Kirk. I chose not to correct her. It was close enough.
A while back, I worked with a guy who never got my name right. I’ve been called Kirk a lot, but this guy, he always called me Craig. He called me Craig for years. In meetings, in the hallway, always Craig. I never corrected him.
Neither did anyone else.
This is my slack-rope walk, the wobble-footed way I traverse the larger social world. It isn’t pretty, but it’s the best I can do.
You react this way because you are internally of the nature of a spider, walking the slack-thread of your web. You are afraid the folks will walk through your long-worked-over creation, and mess it up. You prefer the companionship of tomato vines.
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I’m an introverted spider. I build my web in solitude, striving to achieve perfection amid the winds of changing seasons.
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God has gifted the spider with skill to make spiderwebs beautiful as well as meaningful.
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Wow. I had no idea. I’m glad you came.
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I, as well. In the case of that visit, it was an irrational response; I didn’t have any real fears you’d turn out to be an ogre or poke fun if I made a misstep. In fact, most people wouldn’t; I’m always much harder on myself than other people, at least in purely social situations.
And I know it’s transitory. I just need to brass it out and get to the far side.
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Kurt, were you nervous about coming to stay with us for the weekend?
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Frakking terrified. But I got over it pretty quickly. You are both gracious and easy-going. JC is more intimidating online than he is in person.
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Oh, sorry, my response ended up in the wrong place. I should have hit “reply.”
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No worries. It’s not like I get hundreds of comments!
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