Small Talk

The process of putting on a dazzling outfit (with help from friends and neighbors) is fun. Walking down the street looking like a magazine shoot is interesting as people walk past wondering what event you are attending. However, upon arrival, I dread the "small talk". I never know what to say and I always pray the other person can start and continue a conversation. I can answer politely and put my two cents in about a topic, but starting...what conversation would I start? My brain gets flustered with thoughts such as: Do people want to know about the lab I am stressing over for Monday? Do people want to know that I am excited to have my laundry finally done after thinking about it for one week? Is my breath okay? Do people really want to know that I probably will not remember them since I have to worry about the lives of 200 students, myself and a husband each day and I cannot handle another life? How do I eat this food? Who are you? Do people really want to know that we prefer to be at home at the moment?

The art teacher has more topics to choose from since he works at the school the fundraiser was addressing, and he could dart in between people discussing kids, golf, and the occasional smoke. Yet even he got caught with a chicken wing in his mouth (to avoid the stomach wrech) as a former teacher wanted his deep intellectual thoughts. Can he really address an issue with a chicken wing in his mouth?

The morning after a surreal experience like last night, I catalog the moments I spoke to someone to make sure I sounded at least a little intelligent. However, I can think of possibly three times I approached the small talk with the wrong topic or the wrong person who also didn't want to talk. I was trying to hide and watch the people as a wanderer is apt at doing, but someone would come up seeking some deep tidbit. Even the wait staff stopped to hear some small talk. What do I say? While chugging coffee to help relieve my wine-induced brain, I believe I repeated myself three times on how coffee does not affect me.

This is why I usually photograph events. Today, my throat is sore from screaming at people who sat 2 feet away from me (the acoustics were terrible), my head is a little sore (from nervously drinking wine), and my brain is tired (from sorting through surreal events such as a Corvette hitting a BMW on the way home with two Georgians and loud mother in a small space). Oh well, I can hide away for another year.