Andrea recently said, “Wayne, of all the adjectives that could be used to describe you, ‘a flirt’ is not one of them.” That’s fair. It’s been well established in these missives that I have zero game. Throughout high school, even my car, the ‘Stang had more notoriety than me.
Once upon a time, I thought I’d change that by sheer force of will. In Junior High, I’d heard it said that the frequent fall dances in the gymnasium were the social event for the season. One week I decided to step out of my comfort zone and attend one of these soirees. Taking a deep breath, I punched my left palm with my right fist. “Okay, let’s do this.” The afternoon of the event I polished my shoes, ironed a shirt, and picked out my favorite outdated tie. Then, decked out like a middle-aged sportscaster, I hitched a ride to school from Mom.
The gym doors were open, and music being pumped out by some local DJ could be heard echoing inside. As soon as I stepped into the gym, I was overwhelmed by the noise, heat, and the sheer number of people swaying in the center of the floor and milling around the periphery. An acute feeling of unease began to rise, and it was more than the heat that was causing the sweat to rise on my brow. Logically, it should have been simple to walk up to a group of girls and join the conversation. Alternatively, I could have sought out a pack of people I knew and attach myself to that clique. Instead, I just looked around at the noisy cacophony and decided that this just was not my scene.
I spent the rest of that night helping in the concession stand.
Somewhere along the way, I managed to lose the timidity of youth regarding conversational ease with the fairer sex. However, I’m likely a long way from “Al Green” smooth. This was hammered home when Andrea and I were at a local restaurant back home. The hostess seated us, and Andrea stepped away to find the restroom. When our waitress checked in, I ordered our drinks. Noting Andrea’s empty seat, she asked, “Shall I come back in a bit to take your main order?”
“That’d be great! Thanks!” And I gave her a wink.
Later into the meal, she returned while Andrea had stepped away again. “Would she like another cocktail?”
“Two, please. Thanks!” And I winked once more. To be clear, I am definitively not a winker. But for some reason, on this day, something glitched in my head like a musical earworm that presented itself as an involuntary eye twitch.
This happened twice more with this poor waitress.
Near the end of the meal, she dropped off our check and scurried away quickly. Andrea picked up on the curious behavior. “Our waitress is acting a little odd. Have you noticed? She’s speaking directly to me and not even looking at you.”
“Yeah… That’s probably my fault. I kept winking at her.” Knowing an embarrassingly good story was coming, Andrea settled comfortably into her seat and took a sip of her cocktail. I sighed and relayed the events that happened mainly during her absence from the table. “It probably freaked the kid out, being winked at so much by a married dude in his fifties.”
“You!?” She started laughing while shaking her head. “You…winked?” Her incredulity was a little bothersome.
“Hey! I know how to wink! I was just making conversation and it happened. I couldn’t help it, but dammit, I couldn’t stop!”
“OK. Show me!”
I was already self-conscious at this point, and as I complied with Andrea’s request and reproduced the offending action, I feared I looked like a cross between Mr. Spock and Sheldon Cooper attempting to do something antithetical to their core, like smiling.
Despite my efforts, I tried too hard, contorted my face unnaturally, and produced an awkward, sufficiently creepy wink. Andrea’s raucously loud laughter confirmed my fear. It’s nice to know I’m consistent. I’m forty-two years downrange of that kid at his first dance, and I still have zero game.
No comments:
Post a Comment