I LIKE HOUSES but not house parties. I think it's because I'm bad with people but good at putting up walls. But now that the pandemic has forced me to spend an entire year pacing like a laconic labradoodle inside the walls of my home-turn-well-appointed-penal-institution, I'd do anything the hear my withdrawn walls reverberate with the chatter of the handful of friends I've kept in touch with over the past year.
And now that I, along with many of my few remaining friends, are on our way to being fully vaccinated, I should be able to theoretically make my sullen, sound-deprived walls happy soon by turning this sonic dream into a reality. The only problem is that the year-long sabbatical I just took from my busy pre-pandemic social life has caused my group socializing skills to dimmish so much that I if I spot a couple I know at the grocery store, I'm more likely to take a swan dive into a pile of legumes than I am to muster up the courage to squeak out an "Oh, hey! I guess you're still alive too," in the loudest decibel capable of my new mouse voice.
I doubt I'm the only person who is in this predicament. Social skills are like muscles in that they can atrophy with lack of use, and no amount of family Zoom calls will keep your social skills acute enough for you to easily recall the most effective and socially acceptable way to "suggest" to a sloggy Aunt Joan that she pour the rest of her extra-dry martini down the kitchen sink so she can more safely follow you upstairs to check out the turn down service you just completed for "whomever wants it" in your guest bedroom.
Many of us have been fortunate enough to spend the pandemic living under the same roof as a significant other, a roommate or family member, but not everyone has been lucky enough to have a permanent fixture in their immediate social bubble. And even those who have had the joy — and the accompanying misery — of having a partner to share every single one of their social interactions of this past year are going to get hit hard with a reality check. It'll come when they slink out to their first alfresco fete and realize making small talk with their partner between house-pacing sessions is a lot easier to do socially than relearning how to properly emote from their bashful, unmasked mouth.
"I don't want to make an equivalence between prisoners in solitary confinement and what all of us are going through now, but there are definite similarities," said Craig Haney, a psychology professor at the University of California, Santa Cruz, to The New York Times in a recent article highlighting how royally screwed we all are socially now. "People feeling uncomfortable with other people is part of what happens when denied the normal social contact that we so much depend on."
So, what do we do then? Is it possible to reclaim some semblance of our pre-pandemic social prowess, or should we expect to forever slink away from all but the most familiar and easy of social interactions?
David Moscovitch, a professor of psychology at the University of Waterloo — not that Waterloo, although trial by combat is an apt analogy of our current social landscape — told Vice News that by shooting for a 50/50 talking-and-listening balance while socializing, by carefully planning out social activities — a game of tennis, or happy hour at a bar — and by simply being honest with our friends about our new discomfort with socializing, we should be able to slowly rebuild our atrophied social muscles.
"People who are very anxious tend to look for ways to avoid things that make them anxious naturally," said Moscovitch. "But we know from a lot of research that the more you avoid something, the harder it becomes."
So, follow Moscovitch's advice and start flexing those social muscles again — just do it at a pace you're comfortable with. Soon enough, you'll find that you're just as good at pacing a conversation as you are at pacing your house.
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Yams? Leafy Greens? Erotica? Buy Something at the Farmers Market! The Farmers Need Us Now
Mar. 26, 2021
SPRING WAS REALLY showing off at the mid-March open-air fundraiser at the Ivy Leaf Farms in South Houston — almost as if it were trying to make up for its recent shortcomings. But can you really blame weather? Of course you could, but weather is weather. Weather will never learn to care about us, our travel plans, our comfort, our acres of blueberry bushes. Yet we're all obsessed. Did you hear what weather did? Boy, I wish he'd notice me.
At the fundraiser, a woman in her 50s approached me to ask what I was waiting for in line, and to be fair, it wasn't clear. I stood a social distance of 10 feet behind the next customer, which is two feet too many. I could have easily been waiting for a plant-based burger to the right or hanging basketball planter to the left. All nice things, but no, I was waiting to buy a book of erotic short stories written by local author Qynn Law. "It looks like she sells candles, too," I note.
Five minutes later and still ten feet from the booth, Lori's — that's the middle-aged lady's name, I learn— and my conversation had moved on to the topic of Sequoias. Lori isn't a traveler like her daughter, but long ago she saw a picture in a magazine of a Sequoia turned over, roots craggy, reaching two stories into the mist, and now I kind of need to see them too. As I listened, yes, other thoughts did pop into my head, like the dog I had committed to watch back home whose bladder I imagined as a battery blinking on low. It's just that the dialogue that emerges at an outdoor market is so damn pleasant — like Instagram rabbit holes, and manic moments in between deciding is it Netflix or Masterclass or pick up a book? What do I do with my free time, please somebody tell me.
The dog would be fine, I thought. And if not? Well, we've all been there.
I don't make it to the farmers market much, but when I do I'm always uplifted. In fact, we should all make an effort to go soon.
After the recent freeze, farmers need us now more than ever — and if they don't have those yams you've been yapping about, try something else, like their leafy greens, or even a sock puppet. Just buy something because while some growers have sprouts showing promise, others most definitely have lost everything. If a farm stand that used to sell vegetables now only sells sock puppets, that's a sign you should let them keep the change.
Even during the good times farmers markets tug on my heartstrings, turn that icy valve into soft serve, they do. Farmers wake up every single day at cock-a-doodle-thirty, early to bed, early to rise, just to grow honest produce for us city folk so we can live happy and healthy lives.
Visiting the farmers market is a little stressful because I want to make sure I say "what's up" to my friends and buy something of theirs, of course. And then there are the booths that I don't know, which I can't just walk past. Especially if their queue is empty. I take time to ponder the possibility of a teal crocheted rabbit hammock and ultimately tell them it's gorgeous and I'll have to think about it.
But then I wonder are they watching me go get in line for cookies three tents down? I didn't have to think too hard about buying cookies.
Oh, just take all my money. Split it up evenly, please. Take my social security number too, milk me like one of your French goats.
And while we can't realistically hand them all our cash, the least we can do is offer a smile or some wholesome chat — I'm convinced the farmers market is where small talk originated, an environment fortified by steel drum, hot coffee and tasty pralines for dipping.
Go ahead, ask your favorite goat farmer about their goats. How's their fiber? Do you ever catch them going through your wallet while you sleep?
Spot one of our talented local photographers hanging around — they're easy to find. Tell them you'd like to book a photo shoot. I'm serious, one of these days, and likely the next time I run into Emily Jaschke at the Urban Harvest Farmers Market on Saturday in the St. John's parking lot from 8am to noon, rain or shine, I'm going to pull the trigger on that tractor shoot somewhere out like Lufkin.
I can't believe I'm admitting this, but sometimes it's nice to slow down. A stroll at the farmers market will have you incubated in relaxation. Go ahead, have a casual gab with a stranger. And as you look through the oven window, licking your lips at that chunky chicken, schmaltz dribbling all over a spread of heirloom tubers, think, isn't this pleasant?
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