So begins a new era in this blogger's writing. For the past few years I've been writing about events in Texas because that's what you do. You write about what you know. And I knew Dallas, cause I lived there. That's how it works, I'm told. I'm not going to write about politics or trade agreements or the WNBA. I don't know about those things. Except that last one. Go Comets.
I travelled this expanse, from Texas to California, with my father, Big D, and my little brother, Jonboy. We made one helluva team and I wish we could take another voyage in the RV immediately.
This post will be broken and fragmented, mainly because I'm writing in a hurry. Try doing anything of quality in a complete hurry. Sounds like a race. I like races. Never very good at races, though, except the kind that involved Mario, Luigi, and my personal favorite, Toad. I could turn on a dime/turtle shell.
Meeting people. This is, what I've come to realize, an absolute talent. The sheer act of meeting someone new. You've got a lot to live up to on your end of the bargain. You both do, really. You've got to remember their name, and their...their name. So, I like to say their name right after I meet them.
'Hey Bobby, nice to meet you, Bobby. Good times, Bobby. I'm Justin. My name is Justin.'
And I also like to repeat my name a couple times, as you can see, cause I'm thoughtful. If you did the same we'd all be better off. (Repeating their names rarely works, by the by. I still always end up thinking their name is Derek if a guy, or Lisa, if she's a she. Or if she's an attractive female, she's always Crystal Breeze.)
There's also the whole 'make a good first impression' conundrum. For people who worry about that sort of thing, it's a worry. I try not to, but some questions still sneak themselves into my bulbous man-noggin after the encounter. Was I pleasant, did I smile enough, smile too much, try too hard, adjust myself in front of them, not make enough eye contact, made too much eye contact, stumble over a word, sound smart, sound dumb, over think it? Lots to ponder. Nothing to ponder.
I've got a new handling of this situation, though. I'm not going to shake anyone's hand nor look them in the eye. I will simply hand them a piece of 8.5 x 11 paper that reads 'the pleasure was all mine' in small type in the center.
This should confuse them, as my body language is clearly telling them otherwise, and it will give them something to talk about when they go back to their place of dwelling to share in mealing with their familias. And that, in turn, makes all the difference in the world. Firmly grip my hand. No cod fish. We've talked about that before.
Oh, and I joined Gold's Gym out here, too. The original roid headquarters. And I met a loud mouth. And gave him my card. Not the 'pleasure was all mine card,' but the business card. If he's reading this, if you're reading this, loud-mouth, then yes, you're the loud mouth I'm talking about, Derek.
He was tireless. He was a writer. He knew everything. I just wanted to do the lifting of the weights over and over for awhile, not thinking about anything remotely interesting, but Derek had other plans. At one point in the 'conversation', I literally turned my back to him, walked across the gym to get water, came back to lift the 2.5 pound dumbbell weight a few more times and realized he had never even stopped his story.
None of that happened. The part about the loud guy. Everything else kinda happened. I think the Comets are on, gotta go.