I'm not very good at first impressions.
I'm not exactly sure when I first realized this. Maybe it was the time I introduced myself to someone's parents by making a lame and ineffective joke about naked study parties. Perhaps it was when I met a svelte brunette and, instead of acting smooth and suave, I invited her to sit in on my next marathon Halo session.
A big clue should have been the time I forgot about a job interview and showed up wearing a T-shirt proclaiming the sexual misconduct of a certain Michigan town.
I'm not sure why I'm so awful in these delicate social situations. I guess the problem is mental. You see, our brains are hardwired to make snap judgments about everything we see.
In the wild - which used to be some African savannah but is now more likely to be a house party - we had to make quick decisions about whether or not the shape moving across the horizon was a fearsome lion or a tasty gazelle. In today's terms, we decide in the first five minutes of talking to someone whether they are a swamp beast or a tasty little gazelle.
Every day, we are bombarded with messages stressing the importance of the first impression. The necessity of a firm handshake and a winning smile, the possibility of love at first sight - as long as we don't screw it up talking about Master Chief instead of their dreamy eyes - these concepts are seared into our gray matter from day one.
The worst part of these judgments is our general inability to reverse them - bosses will retain employees who are stealing office supplies, embezzling millions of dollars and dropping babies out of skyscraper windows simply because the staffer wore a sharp-looking suit to the interview. And even if we come to learn someone we know is a fantastic person with a great heart, we will never forgive them for crapping in our great, communal truck.
My problem comes from self-awareness. I know I make these long-lasting judgments about people and everyone else does too. The stress and pressure mean I am just that much more likely to screw up.
But in some ways, it doesn't matter. Too many times, people are hurt when it is revealed their friends aren't really who they appeared to be upon first impression. The revelation can be subtle (Apologies, George, but I actually don't like cats at all."") or overt (""Sorry, Helena, I'm not really a caring and understanding guy. I'm actually an egotistical maniac focused on conquering death and the world, in that order."") but they are generally an uncomfortable experience at best and painful at worst.
So I shouldn't care if I occasionally screw up the first meeting, as long as I am consistently and truly myself. I shouldn't care if my friend's parents believe me to be a little too excited about study groups. I should be proud of my intimate knowledge of the SPNKR rocket launcher. And, above all, any company that thinks Ann Arbor isn't a whore just isn't worth working for.
Despite his penchant for screwing up first impressions, Keaton somehow manages to keep a steady job and have friends. No, seriously, he does. E-mail him at keatonmiller@wisc.edu._
