It can happen anywhere, at any time. It is social torture. It is the Awkward Conversation-insignificant, trite repartee that neither party engaging in it cares about. Drawing from personal experience, the Panthea Institute of Over-analysis will now review three main sources from which it stems.
The Stranger. It starts with the initial eye contact. I catch their gaze and quickly avert my eyes. I can feel it coming. Eventually, I look back, in hopes that they’ve moved on. D’oh! Not so. Our eyes meet again. The inevitable is about to occur.
“Hey,” they say. I smile meekly. “So,” they start. “[Insert any generic query or comment regarding my general well-being, the weather, where I go to school, etc].”
Don’t they understand? I will lose it on the next stranger that asks me, “Where did summer go? Don’t you hate this weather?” I’ll tell you where summer went-it went to the Land of Original Conversation Starters. What did you think I’d say? That I love rainy, cold, miserable winter days? Here’s a quarter; why don’t you run to the Clue Store and buy yourself one?
The stranger, while common, is harmless. You can choose to ignore them. The next two, however, are trickier to shake.
The Acquaintance. I stepped in the Puddle of Doom this morning. That bastard on the northeast corner of Parc and Milton that looks like a frozen puddle but is actually deep, wet, and active. I just bombed an exam. I waited for an hour at the English department office for an advisor only to be told, “Oh, you’re in Cultural Studies? Sorry, I don’t deal with that stream.” And yet, when I run into Joe-some guy I met at Bifteck last weekend who went to high school with Jack’s friend Mary-and get tossed the, “Hey, how’s it going,” I somehow manage a smile and shoot back the most carefree “fine” I can muster. I try to keep walking-too bad, turns out Joe’s a persistent little bugger.
“What’s new?” he asks. “Oh, you know… the usual,” I reply, as my feet shuffle the other way. “Oh yeah? Like what?”
I’m stuck. I try to resist, but in vain. It is coming. I take my last step of freedom before my inner Ann Landers commands me to stop. I mumble something about a crappy exam schedule, being swamped with work, and maybe going out sometime this week. It is painful.
The Ex. Brace yourself-the cringe-worthiest Awkward Conversations stem from this breed. I see him coming down the street and I consider bolting to the other side. Too late, he saw me. We pass each other and exchange typical ex chitchat. Then, I feel it coming. I can’t help it. I kick myself the second it leaves my lips but the words have a mind of their own. “So, how’s Jane,” I ask. Fudge! “How’s Jane” my foot! More like, “How’s Jane, a.k.a. Miss Hoey McSlutty?”
“Great,” he replies. “We went to Tremblant this weekend.” Oh no he didn’t! The nerve. He knows that the to-ski-or-to-ride debate was always a sore point between us. I put on my best sure-we’ve-slept-together-but-know-that-I-faked-it-every-time-so-have-fun-with-your-new-ski-bunny face, smile politely, and make up some excuse about running late.
If all the world is indeed a stage and we are all merely players, why didn’t the powers that be write a better script? In the perfect play, there would be no Awkward Conversation. Every line uttered would serve a purpose. Dialogue would always be witty, sharp, and oh-so-droll. But, alas, we live in the real world. One in which the Awkward Conversation is an unfortunate reality. So… how ’bout them Yankees?
