Last Friday I was really jonesin' for some episodes of 'Law and Order'; it had been a long week and I was anxious to get reacquainted with my bed for a marathon nap. Before I made it home, I ran into an old classmate. The following is an excerpt of our exchange:
Me: Hey Kelly! I haven't seen you in months! How are things going with Ted?
Kelly: Well, about three weeks ago I got pinkeye. It cleared up, but then I got it again'??six more times in the same eye, in fact! My doctor gave me this anti-bacterial ointment to apply, but I don't think it's helping. Yesterday my cat ran away; now I'm worried he's considered 'feral' and could be hunted down by crazy rednecks. Then Ted broke up with me.
Me: Wow, that's ?? um ?? so how's school going, are you still majoring in'
Kelly: I dropped out.
Me: Right.
Over the course of my life, I've discovered I have the uncanny ability to make statements or ask questions, often with the best of intentions, which get misinterpreted as offensive or lead to unfortunate consequences. I'm Larry David with a toupee and contact lenses.
It seems common for other men to suffer this affliction. All the guys out there are nodding their heads; each of us has made an apologetic phone call to an irate girl that began with, 'But I think hairy arms make you look sophisticated.'
I first exhibited symptoms in seventh grade, when I was hanging out with my girlfriend at the time, Sarah. I sat down on her living room couch when Sarah, apparently overcome by passion at the sight of my Transformers T-shirt, jumped into my lap.
'Whoa, you must weigh nearly 200 pounds!' I exclaimed.
A couple of face slaps later, I learned a very important lesson, one I carry with me to this day: some people can't handle the truth.
No, ??wait'??that's not what I learned. I realized if I say what immediately comes into my mind, I could come across as an insensitive jerk. However, women can't possibly understand how stressful this burden is for me and those who share my condition. A girl may claim a guy is 'digging himself a hole' by his misconstrued comments, but I guarantee she was the one who handed him the shovel.
In my defense, I inherited this genetic defect from my mom. She's notorious for losing her composure when she is supposed to remain stoic; she'll giggle at musicals or during a funeral.
One Christmas, my mom volunteered me to perform my violin for a church service. Everything was going fine until a little boy, roughly 11 years old, started in on trumpet. He intended to belt out the Hallelujah Chorus, but the congregation was instead treated to a sound reminiscent of a sumo wrestler passing gas.
Of course my mom, who was sitting in the front row, started laughing. Soon her laughter transformed into a series of very audible snorts which she passed to my aunt and uncle, like a highly contagious social infection.
My New Year's resolution is to rid myself of this unfortunate disorder; in the meantime, I sincerely hope that you, dear reader, enjoy this wonderful holiday season, safe and sound and in the company of your loved ones.
Wait, what did you say? Your grandma was poisoned by mistletoe?
Oh my God, I'm so sorry.
