When you live the life of a hermit, communication skills generally become rather rudimentary. Mine usually ride the range of technology. I feel safe in the world of black and white blinking cursors. There, things are black and white. What I write is what I mean. If there is a suggestion of something deeper, it can be uncovered in the permanent pages. Face to face conversations, and (god forbid!) phone calls, make my life a living hell. Suddenly body language can tell a story that contrasts tone of voice. You can lose yourself not only in the juxtaposition of contradictions, but you may also lose the tried and true signs of attraction—signs which I recently sleuthed the Internet for. (A bit ridiculous? I was desperate. And I flirt like a broken faucet.)
I should have a button that says, “Don’t talk to me. I’m Awkward.” Someone better watch out.

Sunday, April 8, 2012

Season 4 xxvii: Three Strikes

Setting: Highway 53. Starbucks, Onalaska, WI

I have struck out. No wayward balls awarding me a walk. No bunts. No foul balls from lousy swings. Nope. 3 strikes. There is no way around it. I'm out.

Last Wednesday I was left hanging, so I put a question on the line and didn't get an answer. Swing and-a miss!

The following Thursday I took a swing with a quirky quip. I went after the ball with too much power and was left spinning with absolutely no contact.

Later that evening I tapped my shoes, wiggled my butt, leveled my bat and swung at the ball after it had cruised over the plate. Curve ball.

And the umpire shouts, "...OUT!"
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