Rhetoric Rheya Tanner muses on life as a local
Worst Impressions The impersonal agony of introductions
50
The Local
WI N TE R G AR DE N
must have looked into the goop and saw something they liked. No, it’s new people that are the problem. I can imagine approaching some rando on the street and striking up a conversation in the same way I can imagine scooping my eyeballs out, which is to say I will not do that. My strategy at parties is to stand in vague proximity to the refreshments and look approachable, but confident (while being neither), hoping some poor schmuck takes the bait and introduces themselves. Does it work? I will ask all my new friends, when I make one. In that way, I envy my sister, who has truly never met a stranger. I was just one of her 10 bridesmaids, just one of 200 guests on a wedding list that had been cut in half. I envy my brother, who I’ve seen in full-on
bull sessions with folks he’ll never see again about stuff he’s never even heard of. I wish I could be so bold, so open like they are. But cocoons aren’t typically known for that. My saving grace socially has been the West Orange Dog Park, where I bring my pooch to shake a leg and sniff an ass, and where I enjoy an hour or two per weekend among fellow dog people. Sure, it’s been nine months and I’ve only conversed with two people, but that’s fantastic progress by my standards—especially since one of them has turned into a fast friend. I suppose this has been one very strange hello. Or maybe a refreshing one. If you see me around and want to chat, I hope you do; I clearly need the practice. Oh, and when I said I like your shirt? I meant it.
Illustration: Josh Clark
H
ello, hey, hi, nice to meet you. Welcome to my, uh, page. I like your ... shirt. Um ... how about all this rain, huh? Ugh, I can’t do this. Introductions are exhausting. I don’t think I’m breaking new ground when I say the shallow formalities of small talk and how-do-you-dos don’t form relationships. Who builds a house by starting with the wallpaper? And at the core of the awkwardness is this unspoken understanding that no, I don’t actually care how your day is, and you don’t care if my stupid brunch got rained out, in Florida, in the summer. We don’t know each other, so how could we? It perhaps goes without saying that I’m not a social butterfly. In fact, I think when I first spun my social cocoon, I said, “I’m warm and I like being goop. Never speak to me again.” I don’t dislike people; I have a few close friends I’ve known for years, who
