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| 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.
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