The Harpswell social season is upon us, and I’ve got brushing up to do.
I want to be invited to parties and when I’m there, I don’t want to be the person people edge away from because I have spanakopita in my teeth or because the only stuff I can think to say is weird.
Between the pandemic, the long suck bucket of winter, and Maine’s wet and gray springs, it’s been ages since I’ve had regular, rigorous social practice. I’ve forgotten how to mingle with good people and my small talk (and big talk) skills are dusty.
There’s so much potential in a meeting. Goodwill is eagerly and generously given, and then you’ve got to come through with something compelling to build on that first blush of friendship. Sure, there are the staples, like working, the cost of a good meal out, exercising, and ice cream. But complaining about taxes or sharing that my favorite ice cream is mint cookie won’t get me far.
Will I win over new friends by sharing that I vacuum every day? My asthma and my bare feet both appreciate dust-free floors, so I take the vacuum for a regular walk. My house could live with less suction, but when I skip a day, my brain makes a note and leaves a little vacuum-shaped hole in my subconscious.
I’m obsessed with my car’s mileage. I found the button that changes my dash to report real-time fuel efficiency. The number plummets when I hit the gas and soars to a max when I coast. I bought the car used and its self-reported mileage, from the previous owner, was 35.6. Through diligent coasting and mastering rolling stops to avoid gas-guzzling acceleration, the efficiency has jumped to a tenuous 36 mpg. I’m working on a tenth-of-a-mile buffer. I know I can coast at 99 mpg on the straightaway into Brunswick, but if I try to coast on the old base, that rutted road drops my efficiency to 76 mpg.
I know this because I keep doing it.
So this summer, when you’re behind a long line of cars on Route 123 and things slow on a climb, it isn’t the summer people unsure of where they’re going. It’s me, the line leader, yearning for 36.1.
I fear I’m boring and everyone will know when I open my mouth at a party.
I know I’ll say the dumbest, most mind-numbing thing and the person I’m talking to will get a sudden, “urgent” phone call or be sure the host called for help and make a quick exit.
Making friends as an adult is hard. We aren’t on the same playground, negotiating the seesaw together. We aren’t learning finger painting or playing kickball as a group. And people, even close friends, don’t want to know the mundane details of your day.
Forming bonds requires common ground, but not too common. You need a hook, the thing that will reel people in, and then something full of zip and zazzle to sustain interest.
Gardening.
I’ve got seeds. I’ve got soil. I’ve got will, or do I?
I’ve got no idea why I do this except I know everyone likes to talk about their gardens.
I upcycled old water jugs to make mini greenhouse terrariums. I carry them out to the sun each morning and as the light fades, I bring them back in.
The plastic’s too hazy to see if anything’s sprouting. I don’t want to open them because the water beads in the sun and rains down in the evening, so it seems like it’s working as it should. I made a terrarium in grade school science class and the plants grew. My 8-year-old self is convinced the science is sound and I need to give the seed babies a ramp to success in our short growing season. I could get grow lights and containers designed for starts, but that seems like a lot of investment for something that confounds me.
I have access to a supermarket, so I won’t suffer a vitamin deficiency if I don’t plant and harvest. If something I plant does well, it does well all at once and the stress of scrambling to cook and preserve or risk veggie rot is real.
I’ve had some off years when even the zucchini gives me the stink eye and doesn’t grow. For what I spend in seeds, hope, and hustle, the financially sound decision is to skip it and be grateful when neighbors share their bounty.
But I learn one new thing every garden season. Two years ago, I was introduced to the terrifying horned tomato worm, and last year, I met the wasp that uses each worm as an all-you-can-eat buffet for its offspring. The little larvae feast and liquify the worm’s insides.
Fascinating.
So please come find me at the next party. I’ll be the one with spinach in my teeth, talking about worms.
Maybe my fascination with the horned tomato worm and its effective foe; my mini, mobile greenhouses; and the fact that I try again and again despite the times the garden fails me or I fail it, make me fascinating.
Maybe I’ve got a hook big enough to reel you in.
