The Life and Times of a Social Outcast (Part 2 of 2)

Take my work place, as another example. Among my many other responsibilities, I write up new employee biographies for our newsletter. 2 out of 3 females list shoe shopping, clothes shopping and/or shopping in general as a favored hobby.

Though I've had plenty of practice with these interviews, I never know what to say about that "hobby." The end result: I eagerly await their response to the next question, which I always hope will be something I can either relate to... or make an unoffensive joke about.

If I voluntarily go into a store, it's either REI, a used bookstore, an art store, or something comparable. And while I "like" new clothes well enough, I don't like the process it takes to acquire them. Shopping, in most instances, tires me. And I most definitely can't turn shopping into viable conversation.

But it doesn't stop there. If you think I'm up for political conversation, you should know I think as fondly of Democrats as I do Republicans (people generally assume I'm the former). I fall along different lines depending on the topic, and my school of thoughts and opinions generally pleases no one.

So I can't talk to you about shopping. And I can't talk to you about politics, unless you're one few people who doesn't explode whenever confronted with an opposing viewpoint (it's because of these people that I often — once again — don't say anything at all, aside from the occasional wisecrack).

At least we can go out and drink together... right? Get wicked trashed, forget our differences and socialize the night away?

Eh. Only if we go someplace that serves calorie-free alcohol that doesn't taste like... alcohol. There aren't many beers I enjoy, and though I like stuff like Mike's Lemonade and Twisted Smirnoff Ice, few bars around here carry it (I've even had some bartenders laugh when I ordered it). If I request they make a mixed "sissy drink" so people will stop staring when I sip my water, they charge $5-8 for whatever they make and, even if it tastes good, I can't help but think I could've purchased six Smirnoffs for about that price at the store.

To further my embarrassment, I don't want to consume the empty calories it takes to get wasted. My metabolism simply couldn't handle it, and though I secretly wish more places carried Bacardi Razz — which has almost zero calories — I also know that wouldn't make a huge difference because, at $5 a bottle, I'd rather spend my money at the movies.

[I should interject here that I'm capable of enjoying myself at pubs — so long as they're not too noisy and not too crowded — but my amusement is typically intermingled with a level as discomfort when people begin noticing I've had the same drink all night. I'm fine until I have to start fielding related questions.]

And so, like diamonds, politics and shopping... even in the most relaxed of public situations, I somehow emerge as a loner, a bore or an all-out nut. I stand out not because I choose to, but because I simply can't relate. I imagine many folks see me as being socially awkward as a result. Or, to quote a co-worker: "Everyone likes you, but they also all think you're strange."

There's a fine line between "boring" and "strange." And while I generally consider myself to be a hapless bore, I also realize that people who walk the line between "boring" and "strange" are just a hop, skip and a jump away from being social outcasts.

[Just in case you wondered about this post's title.]