Signs

Contrary to popular belief, I am actually dying to say nice things about people. However, every time I try to say nice things I get mocked or am otherwise misunderstood, particularly when nice comments are made in front of my dysfunctional family or my equally dysfunctional friends.

Take, for example, an occasion a couple winters ago, whilst we were cruising along the Intracoastal somewhere in the vicinity of Boca Raton. In front of about twenty or thirty people, I happened to remark to one of our guests, "I love spiral staircases. Don't you think they're romantic?" My family immediately launched onto me like a pack of wild hyenias for being so cheesy and attacked me to such a point that I was forced to make a hasty retreat into one of the cabin bedrooms whereupon I took a nap. Granted, I was about fifteen beers deep at that point, and it wasn't so much a nap as a pass-out, and I probably didn't really need to have my arm around the woman's shoulder considering she was one of my littlest sister's friend's mom, and I probably didn't need to lower my voice to the pitch of Barry White's before I made the comment. But my point is, my intention was to point out one of my favorite architectural details frequently seen in one of my favorite places in the world, and everybody had to rip on me for it. One result of the experience, aside from the retelling of the story every time one of my siblings or parents gets more than two drinks in them, was that several months passed before I had anything good to say about anything, particularly architecture or romance.

At Dahlgren's recent wedding, I was again the victim of yet another misinterpretation, this time involving the delivery of a certain hand signal. After taking Communion I passed in front of the alter where Dahlgren and his wife were sitting, looking all happy and in love, and I could sense that everybody in the church was waiting for me to do something completely stupid. Instead, I tapped two fingers against my heart, that being the universal sign for "much love" or "always in my heart." At the reception, however, a rumor began circulating that I'd given them the sign for the shocker. I'm not going to say I didn't think about doing just that, but I swear to God I really didn't do it. I could see how the mistake was made, considering that I'd spent a good portion of the afternoon in the hotel bar, and that I am prone to doing ridiculous things at large social gatherings, particularly while wearing a suit. In reality, what really happened was that Master At-The-Bat thought it'd be funny to say that I gave the shocker sign to the newlyweds while they were still on the altar, though for the life of me I cannot understand why anyone would believe him since he is the only I person I know who takes things even less seriously than I do.

One final example illustrates my point. A couple weeks ago I was engaged in conversation with one of my brother's college friends that basically amounted to: The kid doesn't think I like him. I was dumbfounded by this revelation, considering that I'd been out drinking with him twice that very week. I told him that I thought he was a good guy and that I had his back, especially since we both went to 'Nova and he's very close with my brother. He asked me why, then, I always have my hands slightly extended to my sides when speaking to him -- apparently he took this as a non-verbal sign of some sort of confrontational attitude I have towards him. I told him I wasn't sure why I held my hands out at my sides. Probably, I said, it's because I was raised on one side of the family by lawyers and on the other side by Italians, both of which are groups renowned for using their hands while speaking, the combination of which frequently results in waving my hands about like I'm trying to imitate a bird flying. I solidified my point by telling him (in jest, but I don't think he picked up on it) that, by waving my hands about at my sides rather than waving them around in front of me as is my natural inclination, I prevent myself from giving potentially misinterpreted gang signals to passing homies and/or delivering awful cuss words in sign language to unassuming deaf folk who happen to be in the area. He looked confused and didn't really buy it, and though we've hung out several times since and maintain friendly relations, I've noticed that he notices that I now thrust my hands deep into my pockets whenever I'm talking to him.

I am somewhat tired of being misunderstood, though I do not expect this condition to pass any time soon, and I do not think there is anything I can do about it. This weekend Page's wife asked me if I was happy and I replied, "I'm comfortable with my confusion." This is true and some would say it is sad, but it's not really sad. Things are not exactly as I want them but that's okay. Sure, I should move out of this small studio apartment I lived in during my grad school days. Sure, I should go out more with serious women rather than continually fall for the drinking-buddy party-girl type. Sure, I should try to wear something other than jeans and a tshirt from time to time. Sure, I should try to get a real job or get off my ass and finish this story. However, those things don't seem to be happening right now, so be it. I told her that that in life, as in baseball, you don't get to call the pitches you'd like to see. I'm fine with that and who I am. I'm swinging at the pitches I think look like good ones to hit, and just doing my thing.

That fact aside, I oftentimes feel like everyone abandoned me or that I abandoned myself. Some would say that I'm just thinking too much and to let it go and move on, but I'm being serious here. I find myself alone a lot at times when I shouldn't be. Over the course of three separate weekends this summer, I was reminded of the fact that a majority of my closest friends live in places other than Chicago. If I was more willing to get on a plane more often, I would have a much more robust social life. I love this city but most of the people I love the most aren't here with me to share it. Sometimes that fact gets to me and it's a hard realization to overcome. To love a city alone, or to love the people but not the place? I'd say that this conundrum, which I rarely ever mention, is much more indicative of my personality than certain odd mannerisms and scrambled physical cues. And so, I find myself being unable to say certain things I wish I could say, while the things I am trying to say are often misinterpreted by the recipient.

And so continues the confusing and often sordid tale that is the life of Pat.