Niceties.

There was a time when I simply could not talk to men who were better looking than I was at the time. Let's just say that I was conceitedly humble or humbly conceited, whatever floats your boat! This has changed, now that I inject a healthy vial of Snobbery right into my blood-stream every morning. Snobbery, Caffeine, a dab of Davidoff's Adventure and I am invincible! There were those who told me I wasn't doing right by myself, because, if pop-psychology, hermeneutics and semiotics are to be believed, then I am, on the inside, a big, fuzzy dog looking for love and acceptance, a big, fuzzy dog who is also a comma splicer, seriously. At any rate, these well-wishers of mine requested me, rather sweetly I might add, to be nicer, to be more approachable and thus win friends. But, honestly, tell me, who, with an accent that is indelibly tinged with the taint of British public school affectations is, ever nice? What is this 'nice' anyway? Mrs. Manson-Mingott hated the word 'nice', she would rather go for 'affable', or even 'fuzzy'! At least these adjectives tell you what to expect! I am never nice, thank you. Never completely nice, anyway. As for the comma splicing, I picked that up in my adoptive Spitsbergen.

Move Along.

Once training ended and I graduated to being an R.A. in earnest, I found myself waiting for move-in day with breath that was bated. And when the occasion finally arrived, I went out there in my assigned polo, with a dress shirt and slim tie underneath, Snobbery, Caffeine and 'Adventure' in check and I began to help incoming freshmen check-in. At first, it was good. Drunk with power (and possibly hopped up on, well, caffeine), I issued fluid instructions, perorating every spiel with a crisp 'Move along'- my fellow R.A.'s smiled indulgently while the incoming residents just looked shell-shocked. Half-way through the process, my energy began to flag. Horribly. The rooms were filling up: I had residents now! Oh. My. God. I was on the cusp of hyperventilation when my rational self (thank you, Betty!) led my other self back to my room where I could have a moment to myself and stay the incoming crisis.

I adjusted my tie, refreshed my perfume, straightened my name-tag and went at it again. But it just wasn't quite there: the 'move along' felt soggy and I just wanted to curl up in bed and die. Or at least sleep for a while! I tried to remember faces, names and align the two, but, after a while, all of them blurred into one tall, lanky, Aeropostale wearing boy with a look of absolute beffudlement on his face. I tried to banter with some and that was, as they would gleefully decree, a FAIL. An epic one, even. Maybe they didn't get my jokes, or my accent, or the fact that what I was saying was actually a joke and that no-one was really going to be put in a strait-jacket. In retrospect, I think, the 'Sweeney Todd' references were also a product of bad judgment. Yes, gentlemen, these ARE indeed your files and not the worst pies in London.

I also tried socialising. Oh yes! But that blew up in my face as well. You see, I should have waited for mummy and daddy to have left, because, when they're around only mummy and daddy do the talking, their wards just look on like people who went out to the park for a stroll, witnessed a particularly elaborate brouhaha and are sure to tell all their friends about it. Despite my chagrin, I found the whole mise-en-scene to be rather endearing: falsely chirpy mummy and daddy, trying so hard to alleviate the grief that is going to come crashing down upon them on the ride back home, gawky looking residents who I just wanted to hug, reassure and feed cake to (thanks, S!)...why, I was there! I was right where they all are now, but it seems to have been a long, long, long, long, long time ago...

"Move along!"

"Move along!"

"Move along!"

And so it continued. The metal of my name tag coalesced with the fabric of my staff polo and became a load as onerous as a breast-plate. It seemed like a perfect day for banana-fish. Dear heaven! I was drained. I felt so inadequate. I did not deserve this garb, this role: my R.A. apprehensions came rushing back in a wave: Titus, Mrs. Danvers....all of them! Back in my room, 'The Hours' sat smugly in a Netflix envelope and seemed to mock me cruelly. Oh it was a perfect day for banana-fish, alright! Wearily, I turned my computer on and Pandora started up:

'When all you got to keep is strong,
Move along, move along like I know you do.
And even when your hope is gone,
Move along, move along
Just to make it through.'

How I love to hate that obnoxious band! But they sure as hell brought me back from a precipice that I am sure to teeter at many, many times as the year goes on by. What is the answer, after all? Does it lie in the fuzziness of the niceties we've all been to asked to inculcate and cultivate? Or do you just make your own personal blend work? But what if they hate me? Ah but I shan't think of that now. I'll go crazy if I do. I'll think of that tomorrow. Now, I shall go dancing. There is release to be had on the dance-floor.

Until the next time,
GossipGuy!