So, I thought I’d take a rare moment (indeed, perhaps unique until the next time), to post something unrelated to music.
For some of us, we are in the so-called holiday season, and with it comes a myriad variety of holiday parties with friends and family, endless celebrations and sales at our favorite stores, restaurants, and bars, and–the most dreaded of them all–office celebrations amongst coworkers and family reunions where we meet a phenomenon called “the second cousin once removed.”
For years and years and years, I rather assumed that everyone hated–and I mean hate, here–the worst offenders of this list: the office party and the family reunion. Apparently, however, some people actually like going to these things. And those of you who do like going to these things no doubt are probably asking me: “But, what are they offenders of? What are they dreaded for?”
Well, for us introverts, these functions drain our soul. They drain our soul in a figuratively literal kind of way.
These events are exhausting. We leave them feeling so tired and sapped of all recollection. Sometimes the very thought of these events deplete us of the will, and sometimes we’re bored of conversing with people before we’ve even conversed with a single other human. And if we haven’t found some reason not to attend, we leave at the earliest possible convenience, preferably quietly and without saying goodbye to anyone. In fact, I plan things like not hanging up my coat, parking the car in a certain location, noting all exits, just so that I can leave without causing a fuss that I’m leaving.
Let me be clear about something, though. We are not shy. Rather, being alone energizes us. Large groups of people (and by large groups of people I mean somewhere around six or more, perhaps as many as four or more) exhaust us. More specifically, it may not actually be the size of the group that exhausts us. Rather, the nature of the conversation does. I love conversation, to be clear, but a certain kind of conversation.
Usually at office parties and family reunions, conversations float about such topics as hair cuts, travel plans, cars, and children. If someone says to me, “I like your hair cut,” the amount of energy it takes to say, “Thanks,” is monumental. Furthermore, it’s difficult for me to remember that we’re supposed to say something in return like, “I like the check pattern in your trousers. Very 1963 with a 2005 twist.” Apparently, however, this is way too much, when a simple, “I like your pants,” suffices. I’ve done this on several occasions where someone asks what I do, but then I forget to ask what they do only because I honestly have no desire to know (i.e. if this is an individual that I have no desire to get to know beyond this single serving).
I do like to have conversations, though. About life, the universe, and everything. Or existentialism, mindfulness, and religion. Or musical philosophy, art theory, and architecture. Or the top ten Super Nintendo games, the top five episodes of Doctor Who, and the greatest scenes from Community. Indeed, I was at a party where we were celebrating the Cambrian explosion. (Yes, the Cambrian Explosion. [No really… we were celebrating the Cambrian Explosion.]) And we wanted to try to figure out what the first plants were. We did the usual Google searches for “first plants,” “original plants,” “first plant cells,” but were having difficulty finding an answer. Then my cousin Audry said disdainfully, “OK, fine. We’ll Google, ‘what were the first plants on Earth’!” And then it occurred to us that some people would find this whole Google search absolutely bizarre, responding incredulously, “What? You were at a party and you Googled what the first plants on Earth were?” (I was also at a party where the goal was to learn something new about each of the U.S. presidents… something that wasn’t obvious like, “Lincoln was tall,” or “FDR got elected for four terms.”)
And I’ve stopped myself on occasion. My office building has this rusted iron monstrosity of an industrial-style awning to welcome visitors as they enter the main doors. Someone made a comment about how ugly it is (and it is, indeed, ugly), and before the words, “Well, I think it comes from that movement in architecture called brutalism,” I stopped myself, because I knew that they would respond with, “What? Brutalism? Why do you know this?”
Before I get too far ahead of myself, I’m perhaps running aground towards some slippery embankments. I realize I’m sounding a horn a little too close for comfort that announces that introverts are intelligent and extroverts are superficial, and I don’t necessarily want to suggest this. Although, I recently discovered that research actually shows this to be true. (Well, at least that introverts are more knowledgeable, not that extroverts are superficial.) And, to be sure, I don’t think extroverts are superficial. Rather, I think that extroverts’ ways of energizing themselves through idle chit-chat (so sorry… it’s difficult for me not to add pejorative qualifiers like idle) is puzzling and difficult to understand. But, it becomes easier to understand when I remind myself that they say the same regarding how we introverts energize through quiet alone time in the woods on a long camping trip.
So, why am I writing about this? Why do I think this is such a big deal? Well, first one last story to suggest my point. I asked someone recently if his work does the “office picnic” thing, and he said they do, but that he avoids them as much as possible by volunteering to work during the time the picnic happens. And what does he get in return? First of all, he gets the wonderful treat of not having to go to the picnic. Second of all, he gets a gift card.
So, to hell with it all. I don’t want to go to these parties. I want my gift card, damn it!
But now I have to stop myself once again, because now I’m a spoiled child. We can’t always get what we want… I know this. And I might be making a Mount Everest out of a rolling hill, to be sure. But, surely there’s a midpoint somewhere where we can meet. The next time someone says, “You know that party you didn’t go to? Well, you missed a good time,” I want to respond with, “No, I probably missed something I find worth missing and that makes me happier,” and then not be called a stick in the mud or a wet blanket because I wanted to stay home with my cats and read Austin.
Or, let’s just cut down these functions to, say, once a decade. No? Once every five years, then? (OK… so sorry…) Once a year, then. Or better yet, have as many as you want, and I’ll just come to one or none.
Just so long as I get my gift card and your unassuming acceptance of how I prefer to celebrate. Alone, by myself, or with three or four of my geeky friends over a bottle of zinfandel, watching Tom Baker in Pyramids of Mars or The Seeds of Doom, admiring how the taste of the wine befits the velvety atmosphere of those greatest years of a fine television show. (The greatest years of Doctor Who are 1974-1977, by the way… no contest.)
So, that’s that, then. I’ll come to these large gatherings as little as possible to talk about hair cuts. Just know that I’m not enjoying myself when I’m there, and please be OK with the fact that I’m not enjoying myself. And then I’ll try be OK with the fact that you’re having a really great time.
Hopefully, then, we’ll somehow all end up having a great time at some time at some place on our own time.