How to Make Friends and Influence People (or, you know, not)

Because I am probably not a real college student, I spent my spring break in Kalamazoo, Michigan, at a Writing Center Conference.  Florida was just too much of a warm, sunny cliche that time of year for me, and so I fled to a place that was not only still freezing, but sounded like it was a location in a Dr. Seuss book. 

Yup, somehow even with a brain in my head and feet in my shoes, I ended up in Kalamazoo, riding in the back of some woman's SUV as two huge water jugs leaked onto the seat my friend and I were hovering over.  Our boss had lost the keys to our rental car, and this woman (hell, let's call her Tracy so we don't get too pronoun crazy through this riveting tale) offered to give us a ride back to our hotel.  My boss had remained silent the entire ride, except to give some tentative directions to Tracy, who happily talked on about the history of Kalamazoo.  Now, Tracy seemed like a very nice person, and I'm not just saying that because she did not leave us stranded at the conference with only weak coffee and “I Love Writing” pins to sustain us for the night.  But she was one of those really perky people, who, hilariously enough, sounded as though she had just inhaled helium, and she remained oblivious to the strained silence in the car.  Despite the less-than-ideal circumstances, I found myself enjoying the ride in a "what the hell" sort of way.  However, the bright city lights soon faded into a foggy field, perfect for, well, hiding bodies.  

"Wow, it's pretty creepy out here," Tracy chirped over her Christian rock music.  "It looks like an episode of the Twilight  Zone.  This would be a horrible place to get lost, but a good place to murder someone; no one would ever find you!" Tracy concluded cheerfully.  My pleasantly neutral expression morphed into an alarmed glance that I shared with my coworker, trying to ask with my eyes if she was willing to do a Charlie’s Angels roll out of the car to survive.  Because if she wasn’t, hell, there was more of a chance for me to escape.  Tracy realized her slight faux pas.  "Oh my goodness, why would I say that?  You don't know me.  That's an awful thing to say..." 

At Tracy's "You don't know me" realization, I felt a rush of affectionate camaraderie, because I frequently assume familiarity where there is only ignorance and, after my inevitable outburst, fear.  

My biggest problem comes when I forget people often need eased into acceptance of my sense of humor.  I'm somewhat of an acquired taste, but I don't always remember that about myself, preferring to instead imagine people instantly appreciate my brilliance and charm.  Sometimes I will, for example, joke about my alleged brilliance and charm in front of strangers, who will not know that I’m being hyperbolic for comedic effect. 

At times, though, people not fully understanding when I’m joking has aided me greatly.  For example, the other night, I was celebrating my friend’s 21^st birthday at the Tiki Lounge. 

For anyone looking for a recommendation concerning clubs in Pittsburgh, if you’re feeling tolerant and not at all claustrophobic, the Tiki Lounge is fine in small doses.  However, it is the sort of place that, upon leaving, may inspire comments such as “I feel like I need to shower.  With bleach,” and so on.

But, I digress.

I was dancing with a guy for a few songs, when he leaned next to my ear and yelled over the music, “Why didn’t your boyfriend come along?”

I rolled my eyes at him both for the transparent line (no, my boyfriend will not materialize and kick your ass for putting your hands on me), and also for bothering to start conversation at all when the music was so loud.  We both had to shout to be heard, and the fact that the strain on my vocal cords reminded me vaguely of talking to my grandmother was causing this person’s sex appeal to rapidly diminish.

  “I’m single,” I responded.    

He backed up from me, put his hands on his hips, and looked me over slowly, grinning.  I narrowed my eyes and tried not to feel like a piece of steak he was considering purchasing.  “Why in the world are you single?” he asked, coming in closer again. 

I took a miniscule step back and answered, “Hunchback.”

He blinked at me.  “Huh?”

I gestured vaguely behind my shoulders.  “Hunchback. You know, Victor Hugo’s novel, or the admittedly more famous Disney movie…?”

He regarded me for a second.  “Oh,” he said, realization lighting his features.  “You’re joking.”

I stared at him and said nothing.  His face went from cautiously relieved to a little creeped out.  Even though he could visually ascertain I had no hunchback, and probably did not escape from the bell tower for the night, he was likely wondering how many shades of crazy I had been painted before I entered the club. 

I’m not sure if that technique would have worked as an escape maneuver (meh. Probably.), because my sister gallantly pulled me away from Prince Charming to dance with her.  Regardless of the outcome, I enjoyed myself more in the two minutes of forcing my sense of humor on a stranger than I did in the ten minutes of actually dancing with said stranger.

You see, that’s the secret to it all—no one needs to think you’re funny except for you.  It’s like when I went hiking with my friends the other week, and one of them asked what path we should take.  I responded, “Take the road less traveled!  That will make all the difference,” and then I chuckled gleefully while they all ignored me and looked at the map.  Maybe by now your friends, like mine, know that your literature classes have forever tainted you and made you incapable of real social interaction (so they make you hike through the woods away from where anyone else can hear your Frost allusions.  Yet, never fear, if you’re really cool, you’ll have a blog to tell everyone about the references anyway), but that doesn’t matter as long as you think you’re funny.  And as long as you don’t scare away too many strangers in the meantime.