If you’re kind enough to invite me to your party, I’l gratefully accept. I’ll look forward to it. I’ll even be excited about it. And then, on the day of the event, I’ll pray to all that is holy that you cancel it.
I don’t want you to get violently ill, or for your house to fill with locusts or anything. Maybe the downstairs toilet won’t flush. Or your oven broke. Or your shady brother-in-law Dominic needs a place to crash again and you’re worried he’d sneak into your bedroom and rifle through your guests’ purses. Classic Deadbeat Dom.
I won’t cancel on you, though. I will go, say my warm hellos, and as soon as I can, seek out your pet. Preferably a dog, but I’ll also be happy to see a cat, rabbit, guinea pig, ferret, iguana, or turtle. You can fuck right off with that snake bullshit.
This will be my home base for the evening. I’ll mingle, because I’m not psychotic, and I’ll be suitably engaging—downright delightful, even—but I’ll always return to my emotional support animal. And if you’re talking to other people when I leave, there’s a 39% chance that I’ll employ the old Irish goodbye. Apologies in advance.
Hello, I must be going
For decades, I fought being introverted, thinking there was something fundamentally wrong with me. I considered it a defect that I needed to fix. I can be very sociable, so I thought I should be very sociable. After all, my brother is as gregarious as they come, so why wasn’t I?
It hadn’t occurred to me to consider the numerous other ways my brother and I differ. To take just one example, he likes to engage in political discussions on Facebook, whereas I’d rather take a kerosene bath and set myself on fire.
To be clear, I’m not antisocial. What I am is fauxsial: I fake being outgoing. I’m very good at it—haven’t been found out yet—but it’s exhausting. It’s as if my life-force is being drained from me one meandering anecdote at a time.
With close friends, I’m fine. I love being with them and find it energizing. It’s when I’m around a bunch of other people that I reflexively map out all available escape routes, like a thief readying himself in case the heat closes in.
I was once invited to a party at the home of a newspaper editor named Bill, for whom I’d freelanced. I liked him, and was thankful to be included. As usual, that sentiment’s shelf life expired on the day of the get-together. Bill was the only one I knew there, and this otherwise kind gentleman didn’t do me the courtesy of procuring a pet for the occasion.
It was one of those indoor-outdoor gatherings, with people traipsing back and forth between the living room and the backyard via the kitchen. This configuration is particularly useful to someone of my ilk for a couple of reasons. First, it allows you to keep on the move; you avoid the pitfall of standing too long in a corner looking like a troubled loner. And second, it provides you the opportunity to slip out and hide in your car for an hour without your host noticing. Hypothetically speaking.
The perils of pretending
What I learned, too late in life, is that introversion isn’t a flaw, it’s simply a fundamental part of my makeup, like brown hair, green eyes, and an intense aversion to James Corden.
I’m allergic to penicillin, but I don’t keep forcing myself to take it because I “should” be able to. That’s how I’ve come to think of introversion. In medical terms, I’m allergic to crowds and have a severe small-talk deficiency.
Two books in particular helped me to reframe this part of myself. They showed me that there are plenty of other people who are the exact same way, right down to the futile attempts to deny our true natures, the need to be alone to recharge, and the other challenges introverts face in a noisy world.
The first was The Secret Lives of Introverts by Jenn Granneman. Among many valuable pieces of wisdom, she makes the following point:
“Introversion is a temperament, which is different from your personality; temperament refers to your inborn traits that organize how you approach the world, while personality can be defined as the pattern of behavior, thoughts, and emotions that make you an individual. It can take years to build a personality, but your temperament is something you’re born with.”
(One of the problems with small talk, of course, is that many people still haven’t built a personality.)
Granneman also says that “acting falsely extroverted can lead to burnout, stress, and cardiovascular disease.” I can attest to the burnout and stress first-hand. The day after a prolonged fauxsial performance is meant for hibernating. Alone. And if I’m going to get cardiovascular disease, I’d rather get it from Shake Shack than some obnoxious dude-bro named Brett who never questions whether I’m even interested in hearing every fucking detail of his tricked-out Dodge Challenger.
I’m on guard, so I’m usually good at scoping out the Bretts—they’re pretty easy to spot—but every once in a while one will corner me by the charcuterie platter and I’ll spent the next 20 minutes listening and nodding, while silently chastising myself for allowing this to happen.
The other book I loved was Quiet by Susan Cain. One of the many points she makes that struck home is this:
“Whatever the underlying cause, there’s a host of evidence that introverts are more sensitive than extroverts to various kinds of stimulation, from coffee to a loud bang to the dull roar of a networking event—and that introverts and extroverts often need very different levels of stimulation to function at their best.”
This might explain why, if I’m concentrating on something and you close a nearby drawer with any force, I’ll jump like David Lee Roth on a two-week cocaine binge.
In addition to simply explaining that introversion is not something unusual or to be ashamed of, both books also make the case that it can, in fact, be an asset.
From Susan Cain:
“One of the most interesting findings, echoed by later studies, was that the more creative people tended to be socially poised introverts. They were interpersonally skilled but ‘not of an especially sociable or participative temperament.’ ”
You’d better believe that at some point I’m going to explain to someone, “Sorry, I’m not of an especially sociable or participative temperament. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my energy is flagging and my disposition souring, so I’m afraid I must take my leave. Good day, sir.”
Here’s another example, from Jenn Granneman:
“Our penchant for working alone empowers us to solve problems and come up with unique ideas. We’re the ones quietly sitting at our desks, turning ideas over and over in our mind, rather than clamoring to make our voice heard in a noisy conference room.”
This reminded me of an astute observation from Alonzo Harris, Denzel Washington’s character, in American Gangster: "The loudest one in the room is the weakest one in the room."
To that I would add, the quietest one in the room is observing everything, confiding in a dog that the loudest one in the room is to be avoided at all costs.
Fauxsial!!! I have a name for myself after all this time 🙌
Also seek out dogs, also rubbish at handling coffee, also want it to be cancelled, and seems like I’m in good company here in the comments section. I wonder how it would go if we all hung out together!
What a wonderful piece, Chris. As a fellow introvert, the book Quiet literally was a game changer for me in how I perceive myself existing in the world. Thank you for bringing humor -- and real insight -- to a discussion of temperament and fauxsocial functioning with such brilliant writing...