I’m dressed to four 9’s in my spiffing, starched white tennis regalia…But I feel like a poser. Cause every time that tennis ball comes my way, I swat that thing like it’s a bat out of Halifax, sending that sucker back across the court with the vengeance of Pickett & Co.
This is how I feel when it comes to making small talk. I absolutely stink at it. My preferred game is watching other people conduct small talk. Sometime I feel like a societal leech. Sometimes I feel like a boring person. But as soon as someone asks me, “What’s new?” I think hmm, well I’m going to Europe in three weeks, then I say, “Nothing.”
I can talk about how to make Chinese egg tarts; I feel comfortable discuss the significance of the printing press; I can sit and talk about linguistics until the proverbial cows make their way to their proverbial home. But it takes me about two hours to settle into those conversations. Small talk? Sorry, that’s a game I just can’t play. I just end up sweating through my polo short and pulling a muscle while swinging my racket at that frightening green ball, as if it’s a live grenade and I’m porcelain teapot wearing white.