A Big Deal
As any genuine introvert might tell you, making small talk with strangers can be a big deal. I count myself among the many who prefer a quiet, minimally stimulating environment rather than, say, hanging out with a crowd. In large social gatherings, I gravitate toward the room’s fringes in particular. If I’m noticed at all, it’s likely because I’ve been focused on, quite longingly, the exit sign above the door. Still, over the years, through a dopey kind of humor, I’ve learned how to harness my social anxiety—making it possible to chitchat with folks whom I have never before met, in a way that feigns ease.
At a recent weekend writer’s conference, I was asked “Where do you hail from?” The gal introduced herself as a backpacking adventurer—a hard introduction to top; nevertheless, my lame and nervous answer came quickly: “The center of the universe!” I hoped this conversational kickstart would evoke a chuckle rather than a vacant stare, as I anxiously shared how I’d spent most of my adult life in Arlington Heights, due north of Chicago—and labeled it a “bedroom community.” It was not a popular destination in any sense of the word, to anyone at all. Most likely she’d never even heard of it.
Like other wallflowers who easily become overwhelmed by group settings—but who also value social engagement—I’m always relieved when an “icebreaker” leads to an enjoyable tête-à-tête rather than a perfunctory blah-blah-blah. So I was pleased when—judged by ten minutes of easy-going banter and no detectable underarm sweat on my part—I was able to claim this exchange with her as a success.
During my flight back to the Midwest the next day, however, as I reflected once more on this small-talk win, my thoughts took an unexpected turn. Recalling what had seemed an innocuous “ask” at the time—the query about where I lived—I now considered my flippant rejoinder in a different, more serious light.
Sure thing, Terry. This came from a voice I recognized instantly as my internal critic. You’ve learned how to power through your homebody reserve. But what about your tendency to wander into your own world and pay little or no attention to all else that goes on around you? Do you even remember the other things this woman shared with you? I stared through the plane’s window, where I saw only a bank of clouds. Haven’t you paid a steep cost for spending so many years inside your own head?
For perhaps the very first time, I refrained from pushing back against this metaphorical truth about where I dwelled and the rent I was paying. I didn’t try to defend my habit of tuning out everyone and everything. Instead, I acknowledged how tightly I’d embraced the idea that only by using my inner mindset would I be able to focus on new ideas, exercise my imagination, explore worlds through unread books and people unmet. I began to ruminate about all the important facts and happenings I missed that everyone else seemed to know. Suddenly, a long past “Earth to Terry” memory popped up in my mind.
I recalled that one day long ago, I contacted our local Animal Welfare Department and reported the escape of Ralphie, our break-and-run beagle. I remembered, too, how thrilled I was when only a short time later, a dispatcher phoned back with happy news. “Our officer found your pooch sniffing through some bushes just over on Sunset. You can pick him up here at the station.” Confused, I’d said, with a resolute tone, “Oh, that can’t possibly be my dog. There is no street by that name anywhere in my neighborhood.” There came a long pause before she replied. “Oh,” she said, “you must be new to the area—right? I looked up your address and it’s only four blocks away.”
I’d laughed at the time, and then as I shared the story with family and friends. But now, as our plane circled over O’Hare in preparation to land, I was sobered; I had not recognized the name of a street in the town where I’d been living for more than twenty years.
Soon, my brain was teeming with more illustrations of the way my mind routinely went AWOL: When was the last time I’d taken note of the aroma of a delicious meal I’d prepared in my own home, or delighted in the fragrance of the lilacs that bloomed in my yard year after year? I wasn’t sure that I recognized the difference between the call of a mourning dove and a crow; could I really identify any other bird in my neighborhood by its signature sound?
How disquieting it was to admit how often and how easily I cloistered myself from so many sensory experiences in my everyday world—even as I was able to acknowledge my well-intended reasons for having done so. Certainly, as an anxious introvert, being a head-space burrower had always allowed me to feel more in control: It had provided me a sanctuary that kept me from becoming overstimulated by external “noise.” Retreating had always provided me with the passion for creativity and productivity, and it was that which enabled me to soar. Unfortunately, having clocked so much time there had served to clip an easy connection with most everything else, as well. Only by making the leap out of my own inner head space could I ever hope to be more connected with the world at large.
So, how else to explain the serendipitous evidence of my unconscious hard at work? While taking our Ralphie successor on an obligatory dog walk earlier this week, I came upon a scene that caught my attention. Twenty minutes into my stroll with Fannie, I was preoccupied with my solitary thoughts, as always. Our dog trotted ahead of me, chasing a scent. It was then that I came across a small man-made marsh I’d never noticed before.
What the heck? How long has that been there? My four-legged friend poked at the reeds along the water’s edge. But the mesmerizing part of the reveal was when a large flock of redwing blackbirds driven out from the tall grasses by Fan-dog—rocketed into the air. Back and forth they flew, from the wetland to a nearby tree—touching down only long enough to puff out their chests, throw back their red-highlighted shoulders, and deliver a trill.
Days later, my mood is still buoyed by that memory of the birds I had noticed. And yet. Can I say with assurance that I’m ready—or even able—to put down roots in some less cerebral neighborhood? I’m not that confident at the moment. Ingrained behavior doesn’t easily disappear. But as an introvert who has become adept in the art of polite conversation, I’d like to believe that I’m up for the challenge. Because if I were to succeed—well, what a big deal that would be.
