|With the beard so went my interest in writing about your show apparently|
Sad news: The poorly titled “Good and Bad” column is no more. I know, I know. Sad faces all around. Last night, I was halfway into trying to decipher just what the hell was going on with Rick’s character when I realized a pair of things. Thing #1: I don’t really enjoy writing about “The Walking Dead” anymore. Thing #2: I’ve become so jaded by writing about “The Walking Dead” that I’d almost completed a bulleted list describing why a character who beats his wife is more likeable than the show’s hero.
When a man gets to that point, it’s time to step back from the keyboard, put away the sarcasm and rethink all of the steps that got him there.
So instead, here’s an embarrassing story that happened to me the other day at that place that I go to in the morning in between bed and work. In addition to curbing my TV reviews, I’m also trying to stop namedropping the gym as much, but it was the gym. This story happened at the gym.
If you’ll recall a few weeks back, I told you about a pair of old guys whose names I know, but who don’t know mine. I talk to them a bunch, but somehow we skipped over that whole awkward introduction phase and went right into daily acquaintance. Those were simpler times. Back before a zombie TV show broke my soul.
Anyway, so the next chapter in that sad and meh tale goes as such: It was a Friday morning, just like any other Friday morning. I’d completed my workout for the day and was completely tuned out to the world, as is often the case when I’m at that place that I don’t want to mention by name. I was walking to the locker room, when I was accosted by the one older gentleman.
Editor’s note: The names in this story have been changed to protect the innocent.
“Hey!” he said. I stopped. I had headphones on, so what he said next was slightly muffled, but it sounded like: “It’s Tyrion, by the way.”
I. Was. Floored.
He told me his name! He introduced himself! We’d made it to step one! Finally, after nearly two years of being daily acquaintances, we’d been formally introduced. The world grew fuzzy. I felt a swoon coming on. I fanned myself with my hand like a Southern belle and fought the urge to exclaim: “I do declare, suh!”
Instead, I stopped fanning myself and stuck out my hand: “Colin,” I said with pride. He shook it, but looked confused. I removed one of my earphones and said: “Colin” again.
“Colin,” he repeated. “Why do you keep saying that?”
At that exact instant, I realized my error. I don’t know exactly what he said around the name “Tyrion,” but it didn’t matter. He name wasn’t Tyrion. His name was Tywin. Tyrion was the name of the other old guy, the one who’d moved to the South. Using my powers of deduction, I realized he wanted to tell me something about the other old dude and I’d gotten their names mixed up and assumed he wanted to finally introduce himself.
I stopped shaking his hand and did the only thing I could think of: I froze. My thinking was that it worked for T-Rexes so it might help for awkward situations. After three or four Mississippis of nearly unbearable, ear-splitting silence, he resumed his story about how the other old guy had bought a really expensive house. We laughed and joked about how he’s living it up down there, both of us more than happy to never talk about what had transpired again.
We’ve run into each other twice since then and my blunder still hasn’t come up and hopefully it never will.
Perhaps he just thinks I was feeling very forward on Friday morning. Or maybe he thinks I’m a maniac. I don’t know. I do know one thing: this isn’t the first time zoning out and then assuming I understood what someone had said to me had gotten me into trouble. Will I make more of an effort to stay connected to the world around me? Hell no. I’m just going to have to learn to assume better.