Self-Discovery in Its Many Awkward Forms

This past weekend was one of those weekends of self-revelation. I spent a good portion of it by myself--almost always a recipe for disaster in terms of self-discovery--and I had to giggle at the lesson in my own personality which I took away from those forty-eight hours: I do not respond well to pick-up lines.

It's not that random friendly attempts at conversation from men I don't know set me on edge. Believe it or not, I don't unleash streams of vitriol at the men who come at me with their somewhat awkward, always unsolicited overtures of interest. To be honest, I don't even (in general) find them all that annoying. Perhaps because they're so new to me, I'm still rather touched by the notice when it occurs. (And it doesn't often.) The trouble is, I just don't know what to do with it.

Now maybe this comes about as the logical result of living my teenage years (you know, "sweet 16" and all that, when most girls are learning the gentle arts of...well...being girls) secure in the conviction that I would be a nun, and that I could therefore leave all that ridiculous "girl stuff" to my friends and sisters. As a college student I'd come through that conviction well enough, but I'm afraid I'd missed something on the old boy front. Men? What the heck are those? That's been my typical response to all things of the "boy-girl-girl-boy" variety for pretty much my entire young adult life. It's only in very recent years that I've even stumbled across some semblence of a sense of fashion, for goodness' sake.

Whatever the reason(s), the sad truth remains that when I'm faced now with masculine interest of just about any variety (except, "Hey lady, you're in my way" or "Hey baby," to both of which I respond without hesitation or difficulty, and always appropriately), I simply do not know how to react. And so, in typical Mary Beth fashion, as a rule I just don't act. I put on my kindest, most distant smile, respond with as few words as are civilly permissible, and withdraw.

And think of all the clever, open, engaging things I should have said later.

Saturday morning gave me my first glimmer of this truth about myself. I had several hours free to grade some MODG student work before my one piano lesson for the day, so I betook myself to Panera where I indulged in a breakfast sandwich and a cup of tea as I read 12th grade Government papers. I had a seat next to a window overlooking their outdoor seating area, and occasionally I'd glance up and watch people go by. At one point, a youngish man took a seat at one of the outdoor tables with a mug of coffee and a copy of In Conversation with God. I thought, "Hmm, that's a neat idea. Bring your spiritual reading to Panera." And I went back to grading. After a few minutes I guess he decided it was too cold outside for reflection, because he got up and brought his beverage and his reading materials into the restaurant, making a beeline for the booth that was right behind my table. I glanced up, caught his eye (not on purpose, lest you get the wrong idea, oh readers), and smiled a polite and (I hoped) distant smile. He walked past, and then I heard a distracted, very apologetic, "I'm sorry" at my elbow.

I turned. He had set his books down and was now looking at me with an almost sad expression on his face. "Sorry?" I thought. "Good gracious, for what?" But all I said was, "Excuse me?"

"I love your miraculous medal," he replied.

(The first thought that flashed through my mind was: email forward--"Did you feel what I felt when we dipped our hands in the holy water together?" And it was all I could do to keep from bursting out laughing.)

And I said: "Oh, thanks," and went back to grading.

"The young man went away sad"... or relieved...or both.

And then Sunday. I drove out to Reston to see Katie and Sam and Katie's family at her parents' house. I went out early and stopped at Reston Town Center (for reasons which I am not at liberty to divulge, but they involved a particular party's birthday). Having an hour to kill after my errands were finished, I stopped in at Starbucks, purchased a brownie (to celebrate Sunday) and a coffee, and sat down to read a bit of the novel I'm currenty working through, F. Scott Fitzgerald's Tender Is the Night. I settled myself in the quietest corner of the very busy coffee shop, near an older man who was filing taxes and a youngish (I say "ish" because, while I'm relatively certain he couldn't have been a day over 35, his hair was almost entirely gray. But he wasn't bad looking at all...not that I noticed, of course) man doing work of some variety on a lap top.

I read without interruption for a good twenty minutes. It was beautiful. Reading Fitzgerald is like having a love affair with the English language. And then It Happened. The youngish fellow stopped his work and stretched and looked at his watch, and almost simultaneously with a very large and (I'm sure) gratifying yawn asked, "How's Fitzgerald treating you?" I had the initial impression that his question was directed at the wall above my head, so I almost didn't reply. Then I realized the guy was grinning at me.

So I put on my best closed-face, "I'm sure you're very nice, but I don't know you from Adam and I definitely don't know what to say to you" smile and replied, "Good. I love it."

"Well, I have a dictionary in here," he picked up a blackberry from the table and waved it in the air, "if you need it. Fitzgerald was one of the most pedantic authors of all time." Given my love of Fitzgerald's crafting of the English language, I can't quite agree with that description. I did, however, have to admire a guy who uses the word "pedantic" in normal conversation. Not sure what to say, I nodded and said, "Thanks! Hey, that's why I read him."

And returned to reading. Conversation: dead in the water. Five minutes later I gathered my things and left.

This does not bode well for my future life, does it?